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PZCCJOLA   1 


GEE  1 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 
OF 


SJnrharn  formal 
..1013-. 


^ 

^ 


PICCIOLA 


BY 


JOSEPH    XAVIER   BONIFACE 


(KNOWN  UNDER  THE  NAME  OF  x.  B.  SAINTINB) 


TRANSLATED  AND  EDITED 


ABBY  L.  ALGER 


BOSTON,  U.S.A. 

GINN  &  COMPANY,  PUBLISHERS 
Cbe  atbenacu 
1902 


COPYRIGHT,  1899 
BY  GINN  &  COMPANY 

ALL  RIGHTS   RESERVED 


- 


PREFACE. 


Picciola,  the  touching  story  of  a  prisoner  and  a  flower, 
is  always  new  and  fresh,  although  it  has  been  reprinted  in 
the  original  French  more  than  twoscore  times,  and  has 
been  translated  into  every  language  of  Europe  since  it 
first  appeared  in  1836. 

Such  success  was  little  expected  by  its  modest  author, 
who  wrote  it  for  his  own  satisfaction  alone,  but  was  finally 
persuaded  to  print  it  by  a  friend,  who  took  up  the  manu- 
script by  chance  and  could  not  lay  it  down  until  he  had 
read  it  through. 

Saintine  received  the  Monthyon  prize  from  the  French 
Academy  and  the  ribbon  of  the  Legion  of  Honor  in  recog- 
nition of  the  merits  of  Picciola,  but  these  honors  did  not 
give  him  such  pleasure  as  the  thought  that  some  real 
prisoner  might  find  consolation  in  his  book.  This  hope 
was  fulfilled  when  Louis  Napoleon  wrote  to  him  from  the 
fortress  of  Ham,  where  he  was  imprisoned,  that  Picciola 
had  been  both  a  lesson  and  a  solace  to  him,  had  shown 
him  that  a  philosopher  has  hidden  treasures  in  his  heart 
which  may  enable  him  to  enjoy  happiness  under  any  cir- 
cumstances. 

In  his  own  preface  to  the  work  the  author  says  :  "  My 
book  is  neither  a  drama  nor  a  romance. 


iv  PREFACE. 

"  My  story  is  a  simple  one,  so  simple  that  perhaps  no 
writer  ever  tried  his  hand  on  a  subject  of  such  narrow 
limits.  My  heroine  is  such  a  little  thing !  Not  that  I 
would  throw  the  blame  on  her  in  advance  in  case  of  fail- 
ure ;  Heaven  forbid  !  Do  you  lay  any  value  upon  the 
truth  of  facts  ?  I  assure  you  that  my  tale  is  a  true  one, 
and  I  offer  this  as  some  recompense  for  all  that  you  may 
miss  in  it. 

"  You  remember  that  kind  and  gracious  lady  who  died 
not  long  ago,  — the  Countess  de  Charney,  —  an  incredible 
mixture  of  sweetness  and  audacity,  of  gentleness  and 
resolution ;  she  was  a  terrible  lioness,  whom  a  child  could 
calm  with  a  word  ;  she  was  a  timid  dove,  capable  of  endur- 
ing tempest  and  storm  to  defend  her  loved  ones. 

"  Such  as  I  knew  her,  others  knew  her  long  before  I 
did.  It  is  with  lively  pleasure  that  I  tell  you  of  this  noble 
creature ;  I  shall  but  too  seldom  have  opportunity  to  speak 
of  her  again.  She  is  not  the  chief  heroine  of  this  story. 

ff  During  your  one  visit  to  her  at  Belleville,  where  she 
made  her  permanent  home,  for  her  husband's  tomb  is 
there  (and  her  own,  too,  now),  several  things  must  have 
struck  you  as  strange.  For  instance,  the  presence  of  a 
white-haired  old  man-servant  seated  beside  her  at  table. 
You  seemed  amazed  to  hear  this  person,  with  his  uncouth 
gestures,  his  common  manners,  address  the  daughter  of 
the  Countess  so  familiarly,  and  to  hear  the  elegant  and 
high-bred  young  woman,  beautiful  as  her  mother  before 
her,  answer  the  old  man  with  deference  and  respect,  call- 
ing him  godfather ;  she  is  indeed  his  goddaughter. 

"  Then,  perhaps  you  remember  a  withered,  faded  flower, 
contained  in  a  rich  case ;  ancj  when  you  asked  its  history, 


PREFACE.  V 

do  you  recall  the  sad  look  which  swept  over  the  poor 
widow's  face  ?  I  think  she  even  let  your  question  go  un- 
answered :  it  would  have  taken  too  long  to  answer  it,  and 
the  story  could  not  be  told  to  indifferent  ears. 

"  I  will  give  you  your  answer  now. 

"  Honored  by  the  affection  of  that  rare  woman,  I  have 
more  than  once  sat  between  her  and  her  faithful  old  ser- 
vant, face  to  face  with  that  precious  relic,  listening  to  long 
and  detailed  accounts  which  moved  me  strangely.  I  have 
long  had  in  my  possession  the  manuscripts  of  the  Count, 
his  correspondence,  and  the  double  journal  of  his  prison, 
on  linen  and  on  paper.  I  have  not  lacked  documentary 
proof  and  historic  evidence. 

"  I  treasured  those  stories  in  my  memory;  I  studied  those 
manuscripts  attentively ;  I  copied  precious  extracts  from 
that  correspondence ;  from  that  journal  I  derived  my  in- 
spiration, and,  if  I  succeed  in  transmitting  to  your  soul 
the  emotion  which  seized  me  at  the  sight  of  all  these 
tokens  of  the  prisoner,  I  need  not  fear  for  the  fate  of  my 
book. 

"  One  word  more.  Here  are  no  stirring  incidents,  no 
thrilling  love  tale.  And  yet  there  is  love  in  what  I  am 
about  to  relate ;  but  it  is  only  the  love  of  a  man  for  .  .  . 
Shall  I  tell  you  ?  .  .  .  No,  read,  and  you  will  learn." 

The  supreme  lesson  of  the  story,  brought  out  by  the 
author  with  cumulative  skill  and  force,  is  the  marvellous 
power  of  quietude,  loneliness,  and  concentration  in  devel- 
oping the  affections  of  the  soul.  At  liberty  in  the  varied 
intercourse  of  the  world,  attention  and  sympathy  scattered 
fugitively  over  a  thousand  shifting  objects  become  care- 
less, superficial,  frivolous,  and  transient,  But  when  one  is 


vi  PREFACE. 

shut  up  in  the  enforced  solitude  of  a  prison,  his  spirit  first 
recoils  upon  itself  from  the  dreadful  monotony,  and  then 
grows  conscious  of  its  unfathomable  capacity  and  demand 
for  fellowship.  Under  these  circumstances,  give  it  even 
the  simplest  and  humblest  object  around  which  to  entwine 
the  yearning  tendrils  of  its  love,  and  it  will  idealize  that 
object  until  it  grows  divine  and  calls  forth  an  incredible 
wealth  of  devotion.  This  great  truth  Picciola  teaches 
with  a  charm  equally  emphatic  and  persuasive.  This  of 
itself  alone  lends  the  work  extraordinary  value  as  an  edu- 
cational influence  of  the  highest  moral  order. 

A.  L.  A. 


CONTENTS. 


BOOK  FIRST. 


CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 


I      . 

II 

III  . 

IV 

V     . 

VI 

VII 

VIII 

IX  . 

X 

XI  . 

XII 

XIII 

XIV 

XV 


CHAPTER  I 
CHAPTER  II    . 
CHAPTER  III 
CHAPTER  IV  . 
CHAPTER  V 
CHAPTER  VI  . 
CHAPTER  VII 
CHAPTER  VIII 


BOOK  SECOND. 


\ 
7 

15 
23 
30 
35 
4i 
48 
52 
58 
66 

73 
76 
80 
86 


95 
104 
1 08 
in 
114 
118 
123 


vii 


viii  CONTENTS. 


BOOK   THIRD. 

PAGE 

CHAPTER  I 130 

CHAPTER  II    .        .  ' 132 

CHAPTER  III               .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  136 

CHAPTER  IV .        .        .  140 

CHAPTER  V -145 

CHAPTER  VI 150 

CHAPTER  VII 158 

CONCLUSION 163 


PICCIOLA. 


BOOK      FIRST. 


CHAPTER    I. 

COUNT  CHARLES  VERAMONT  DE  CHARNEY,  whose  name 
is  doubtless  not  yet  forgotten  by  the  learned  men  of 
our  time,  and  might,  if  need  were,  be  found  inscribed  in 
the  books  of  the  imperial  police,1  was  born  with  a  vast 
facility  for  learning  ;  but  his  noble  intellect,  trained  in 
the  schools,  had  acquired  the  habit  of  discussion.  He 
argued  far  more  than  he  observed.  In  short,  he  was  bet- 
ter adapted  for  a  philosopher  than  a  scientist. 

When  he  was  twenty-five  years  old,  he  was  complete 
master  of  seven  languages.  Unlike  many  worthy  poly- 
glots who  seem  to  have  labored  to  acquire  various  idioms 
merely  to  display  their  ignorance  and  inanity  to  foreigners 
as  well  as  to  their  fellow-countrymen  (for  a  man  may  be 
a  fool  in  several  languages),  Count  Charney  made  use  of 
these  preparatory  studies  as  stepping-stones  to  others  far 
more  important. 

If  he  had  many  servants  in  the  employ  of  his  intelli- 
gence, at  least  each  of  them  had  his  own  duties,  his 

1  Referring  to  the  period  from  1804  to  1814,  reign  of  Napoleon  I. 

I 


2  PICCIOLA. 

especial  charge,  his  particular  fields  to  till.1  With  the 
Germans,  he  'devoted  himself  to  metaphysics ;  with  the 
English  and  Italians,  to  politics  and  legislation;  with 
all,  to  history,  which  he  could  question  by  going  back 
to  its  first  sources,  thanks  to  the  Hebrews,  Greeks,  and 
Romans. 

He  accordingly  devoted  himself  wholly  to  these  grave 
speculations,  by  no  means  neglecting  the  sister  sciences 
which  relate  to  them.  But  soon,  dismayed  by  the  ever- 
widening  horizon,  stumbling  at  every  step  in  the  laby- 
rinthine maze  upon  which  he  had  entered,  wearied  by  the 
vain  pursuit  of  a  doubtful  truth,  he  ceased  to  regard  his- 
tory as  anything  but  a  huge  traditional  lie,  and  strove  to 
reconstruct  it  upon  new  bases.  He  merely  wrote  one 
more  romance,  which  scholars  ridiculed  from  envy,  and 
the  world  from  ignorance. 

Political  and  legislative  science  offered  him  something 
more  positive ;  but  it  seemed  to  call  for  so  many  reforms 
in  Europe  !  And  when  he  tried  to  point  out  some  which 
might  be  made,  he  found  abuses  so  ineradicable  a  part  of 
the  social  structure,  so  many  existences  were  dependent 
upon  a  false  principle,  that  he  lost  courage,  feeling  that 
he  had  neither  the  strength  nor  the  lack  of  feeling  needed 
to  overturn  in  other  lands  what  the  stress  and  storm  of 
revolution  2  had  failed  to  destroy  in  France. 

Then,  how  many  worthy  people,  with  the  same  light 
and  with  the  same  good  intentions,  had  theories  wholly 
opposed  to  his  !  What  if  he  were  to  set  the  whole  world 
by  the  ears  for  a  doubt !  This  thought  troubled  him  even 

1  Refers  to  the  seven  languages  he  had  mastered  as  so  many  servants. 

2  Revolution  of  1789. 


PICCIOLA,  3 

more  than  the  aberrations  of  history,  and  left  him  in  a 
state  of  painful  perplexity. 

There  remained  metaphysics. 

The  world  of  ideas  —  where  he  thought  no  one's  repose 
need  be  disturbed  —  and  he  lost  his  own. 

The  deeper  he  plunged  into  its  depths,  analyzing,  dis- 
cussing, and  arguing,  the  more  obscure  and  confusing  all 
became  to  him.  The  unattainable  truth,  always  evading 
his  approach,  vanished  before  him  and  seemed  to  hover 
mockingly  above  him  like  a  will-of-the-wisp,  drawing  him 
on  only  to  lead  him  astray. 

Hesitating  between  Bossuet  and  Spinoza,1  between 
deism  and  atheism,  urged  in  different  directions  by  spir- 
itualists, epicureans,  animists,  autologists,  eclectics,  and 
materialists,  he  was  seized  with  an  immense  doubt  which 
he  desperately  solved  by  a  complete  negation. 

Chance  became  his  God,  nothingness  his  hope ! 

He  clung  to  this  system  with  rapture,  almost  with  pride, 
as  if  he  had  himself  created  it,  feeling  happy,  in  the  midst 
of  his  incredulity,  to  be  rid  of  all  the  doubts  which  had 
besieged  him. 

The  death  of  a  relative  left  him  possessor  of  a  large 
fortune.  He  bade  farewell  to  learning  and  resolved  to 
live  for  pleasure  alone. 

After  the  coming  into  office  of  the  consular  government, 
French  society  was  put  upon  a  new  footing  of  luxury  and 
splendor.  Amidst  the  trumpet  blasts  of  victory  heard  on 
every  hand,  all  was  wild  delight  in  Paris. 

Charney  went    into  society,  rich,  fashionable   society, 

1  Between  belief  and  unbelief.  Bossuet,  a  French  bishop,  1627-1704. 
Spinoza,  a  Dutch  metaphysician,  1632-1677. 


4  PICCIOLA. 

amiable,  brilliant  society,  the  society  of  grace  and  wit 
and  intellect ;  then  in  the  centre  of  this  whirl  of  idle  and 
yet  busy  life,  of  this  mad  chase  after  pleasure,  he  was 
amazed  to  find  that  he  was  not  happy. 

He  had  tried  to  be  intimate  with  men  famed  for  their 
learning  and  their  good  sense ;  but  how  weak,  ignorant, 
and  full  of  errors  he  found  them !  He  pitied  them. 

This  is  one  of  the  worst  inconveniences  of  an  excess  of 
human  knowledge ;  you  find  no  one  on  a  level  with  you  ; 
even  those  who  know  as  much  as  you  do,  do  not  know 
it  in  the  same  way.  From  the  height  which  you  have 
reached,  you  see  other  men  below  you,  weak  and  insignifi- 
cant ;  for  in  the  hierarchy  of  intellect,  as  in  that  of  power, 
solitude  is  the  result  of  greatness. 

To  live  alone  is  the  punishment  of  those  who  aspire  to 
too  great  heights ! 

Our  philosopher  appealed  more  and  more  freely  to 
material  and  positive  enjoyments.  In  that  society  just 
springing  to  life  again,  so  long  deprived  of  pleasures  and 
parties,  still  bearing  the  marks  of  the  bloody  struggles  of 
the  revolution,  and  which,  trailing  behind  its  shreds  and 
tatters  of  Roman  virtues,  at  a  single  bound  outdid  the 
gorgeous  orgies  of  the  regency,1  he  made  himself  conspic- 
uous by  the  exaggeration  of  his  expenditures,  his  lavish 
extravagance,  his  follies.  Fruitless  efforts  ! 

He  had  horses,  carriages,  an  open  table ;  he  gave  con- 
certs, balls,  and  hunting  parties ;  and  nowhere  could  he 
find  pleasure ! 


1  Period  during  the  minority  of  Louis  XV,  from  1715-1723,  when  Philip, 
Duke  of  Orleans,  was  Regent  —  a  period  of  corruption  and  extravagance. 


PICCIOLA.  5 

Charney  could  find  happiness  neither  in  truth  nor  in  error. 

To  virtue  he  was  averse,  to  vice  indifferent. 

He  had  sounded  the  vanity  of  learning,  and  happy  igno- 
rance was  forbidden  him.  The  gates  of  that  Eden  were 
forever  closed  behind  him. 

The  bustle  of  society  wearied  him  ;  solitude  and  silence 
were  painful  to  him. 

In  company,  others  bored  him  ;  alone,  he  bored  himself. 

Profound  melancholy  took  possession  of  him. 

Philosophic  analysis,  in  spite  of  his  efforts  to  avoid  it, 
ruled  his  thoughts  and,  destroying  all  illusion,  tarnished, 
dwarfed,  and  destroyed  the  pleasures  and  luxury  amid 
which  he  fain  would  live.  The  praises  of  his  friends 
ceased  to  be  anything  but  the  current  coin  in  which  they 
paid  for  the  share  they  took  in  his  wealth,  and  merely 
showed  their  desire  to  secure  at  his  expense  a  seat  at  the 
table  with  the  fortunate  of  the  earth. 

He  was  stricken  with  a  dreadful  disease,  and  yet  one 
more  common  than  we  might  think  —  one  which  attacks 
the  proud  to  humble  them. 

In  the  fine  texture  of  his  clothes  he  seemed  to  smell  the 
foul  odor  of  the  animal  which  furnished  the  wool.  In  the 
silk  of  his  rich  hangings  he  saw  the  loathsome  worm  which 
spun  it.  His  elegant  furniture,  his  carpets,  his  books, 
his  silver  and  ivory  toys,  all  seemed  to  him  mere  cast-off 
skins  and  refuse.  Death,  Death  set  off  and  fashioned  by 
the  sweat  of  a  dirty  artisan. 

His  illusions  were  gone,  his  imagination  paralyzed. 

And  yet  he  must  have  sensations  at  any  cost ! 

The  love  which  he  could  not  fix  on  a  single  object  he 
strove  to  lavish  on  an  entire  nation. 


6  P1CCIOLA. 

He  became  a  philanthropist ! 

To  help  mankind,  whom  he  despised,  he  again  threw 
himself  into  politics,  not  speculative  politics  now,  but 
active  politics.  He  was  initiated  into  secret  societies  ;  he 
strove  to  feel  that  sort  of  fanaticism  which  may  befit  dis- 
illusioned spirits.  In  short,  he  conspired  !  And  against 
whom  ?  Against  the  power  of  Bonaparte. 

Perhaps  the  patriotic  love,  the  universal  love  which 
seemed  to  inspire  him,  may  really  have  been  nothing  more 
than  hatred  for  a  single  man,  for  a  man  whose  glory  and 
success  disturbed  him. 

The  aristocratic  Charney  fell  back  upon  the  principles 
of  equality;  the  proud  gentleman,  stripped  of  the  title 
inherited  from  his  ancestors,  could  not  endure  another  to 
assume  with  impunity  the  title  of  emperor,  which  he  had 
only  won  at  the  point  of  the  sword. 

What  was  the  conspiracy  ?     It  matters  not. 

There  was  no  lack  of  conspiracies  at  that  time.  I  only 
know  that  it  smouldered  from  1803  to  1804;  but  it  was 
never  permitted  to  break  forth  ;  the  police,  the  secret  provi- 
dence watching  over  the  destinies  of  the  coming  empire, 
exposed  it  betimes  and  did  not  see  fit  to  make  any  stir 
about  it,  nor  think  it  worthy  of  a  military  execution  on 
the  plains  of  Grenoble.1 

The  leaders  of  the  conspiracy,  taken  by  surprise,  arrested 
in  their  own  houses,  condemned  almost  unheard,  were  scat- 
tered among  the  prisons,  citadels,  or  fortresses  of  the 
ninety-six  departments  of  France. 

1  Now  included  in  the  limits  of  Paris ;  formerly  a  small  village  where 
military  executions  took  place. 


CHAPTER  II. 

I  REMEMBER  that  as  I  crossed  the  Greek  Alps,1  on  my 
way  to  Italy,  travelling  on  foot,  my  knapsack  on  my  back 
and  my  alpenstock  in  my  hand,  I  paused  musingly  to  gaze 
on  a  torrent,  not  far  from  the  Col  de  Rodovetto,  swollen 
by  the  melting  glaciers. 

The  roar  of  its  waters,  the  foaming  cascades  along  its 
course,  its  various  hues,  now  yellow,  now  white,  and  now 
black,  showed  that  it  had  made  its  way  through  layers 
of  marlstone,  limegtone,  and  slate ;  the  huge  blocks  of 
marble  and  flint  which  it  had  laid  bare,  but  not  uprooted, 
formed  so  many  cataracts,  added  a  different  note  to  all  the 
other  tones,  fresh  cascades  to  all  the  other  cascades ;  the 
branches  of  drifting  trees,  half  out  of  the  water,  were 
on  the  one  side  torn  by  the  wind,  which  was  blowing  vio- 
lently, and  on  the  other  twisted  by  the  leaping  waves. 
Clods  of  earth,  still  covered  with  verdure,  islets  wrested 
from  the  banks,  floated  on  the  surface  of  the  torrent 
and  were  dashed  to  pieces  against  the  trees,  as  the  trees 
in  turn  were  dashed  against  the  boulders.  All  this  uproar 
and  confusion,  the  various  sights  and  sounds,  compressed 
within  two  lofty  steep  banks,  held  me  for  some  time  a 
prey  to  meditation. 

This  torrent  was  the  Clusare.2 

I  wandered  along  its  banks,  and  in  its  company  I 
reached  one  of  the  four  valleys  known  as  Protestant,  in 

1  A  portion  of  the  Alps  extending  from  Mont  Cenis  to  Mont  Blanc. 

2  One  of  the  minor  affluents  of  the  Po. 


8  PICCIOLA. 

memory  of  the  Waldenses,1  who  once  took  refuge  there. 
My  torrent  had  now  lost  its  rapid,  lawless  course  and  its 
roaring,  brawling  voices.  It  ran  smoother,  it  had  left  its 
trees  and  islets  by  the  way;  its  colors  had  melted  and 
blended  into  a  single  tint,  and  the  mud  from  its  bed  no 
longer  clouded  its  surface.  Still  flowing  swiftly,  but 
smoothly,  it  assumed  the  aspect  of  a  peaceful  river  to 
caress  with  its  waves  the  walls  of  Fenestrella. 

Before  me  was  Fenestrella,  a  large  town  famed  for  its 
peppermint,  and  still  more  for  the  forts  which  crown  the 
two  mounts  upon  which  the  town  lies.  These  forts,  which 
communicate  by  means  of  covered  ways,2  were  partly  dis- 
mantled during  the  wars  of  the  republic;  one  of  them, 
however,  repaired  and  revictualled,  was  made  a  state 
prison  when  Piedmont  became  a  part  of  France. 

In  this  very  fort,  at  Fenestrella,  Charles  Veramont, 
Count  de  Charney,  was  confined,  accused  of  an  attempt 
to  overthrow  the  regular  and  lawful  government  of  his 
country,  and  to  substitute  a  reign  of  disorder  and 
terror. 

Behold  him  now,  parted  alike  from  scholars  and  pleas- 
ure seekers,  regretting  neither,  forgetting  without  much 
regret  the  hope  of  political  regeneration  which  had  for  a 
moment  seemed  to  kindle  his  weary  soul ;  bidding  a  forced 
farewell,  but  one  full  of  resignation,  to  his  fortune,  all 
whose  splendors  could  not  dazzle  him ;  to  his  friends  who 
loved  him  or  deceived  him  ;  his  abode,  instead  of  his 

1  Vaudois  or  Waldenses,  a  religious  sect,  so  called  from  their  founder, 
Pierre  de  Vaux,  born  near  Lyons  in  1170.     In  1689  they  sought  shelter  in 
Piedmont. 

2  Passages  protected  from  shot  by  a  breastwork  of  earth,  gabions  or 
sandbags. 


PICCIOLA.  9 

spacious  and  elegant  house,  a  bare  and  gloomy  cell,  his 
gaoler  for  his  only  servant. 

What  does  he  care  for  the  gloom  and  poverty  of  his  home  ? 
All  that  is  strictly  necessary  is  there,  and  he  is  tired  of 
superfluities.  Even  his  gaoler  seems  to  him  tolerable. 

His  thoughts  alone  oppress  him. 

And  yet  what  other  diversion  is  left  him  ? 

All  communication  with  the  outside  world  is  forbidden 
him.  He  has  not,  nor  can  he  have,  either  books,  pen,  or 
paper.  Such  are  the  rules  of  the  prison. 

This  would  have  been  no  privation  to  him  once,  when 
his  only  idea  was  to  evade  the  scientific  doubts  which 
besieged  him.  Now,  a  book  would  have  given  him  a 
friend  to  consult  ;  nay,  more,  a  foe  to  combat.  Aloof 
from  the  world,  he  was  forced  to  fall  back  upon  him- 
self, to  live  with  his  enemy  —  with  his  thoughts. 

But  how  bitter  and  how  oppressive  are  those  thoughts 
which  never  cease  to  remind  him  of  his  desperate  position  ! 
How  dull  and  cold  for  him,  for  him  upon  whom  Nature 
once  lavished  her  gifts,  whom  society  surrounded  from  his 
birth  with  favors  and  privileges ;  for  him  now  a  wretched 
captive ;  for  him  who  has  such  need  of  protection  and 
help,  and  who  has  no  faith  either  in  the  power  of  God  or 
the  pity  of  man  ! 

He  tries  again  to  free  himself  from  that  demon  of  argu- 
mentation which  alternately  freezes  and  inflames  him. 
Once  more  he  strives  to  live  with  the  external  world,  in  the 
material  world.  But  how  narrow  are  now  the  limits  of 
that  world  for  him  ! 

The  cell  occupied  by  Count  de  Charney  was  in  the  rear 
of  the  fortress,  in  a  small  building  constructed  upon  the 


10  PICCIOLA. 

ruins  of  an  ancient  stronghold,  formerly  a  part  of  the 
defence  of  the  fortress,  but  now  made  unnecessary  by 
newer  fortifications. 

Four  walls  freshly  whitewashed,  where  he  could  find  no 
trace  of  those  who  had  occupied  this  place  of  desolation 
before  him ;  a  table  upon  which  he  could  do  nothing  but 
eat ;  l  a  chair,  whose  painful  unity  seemed  to  warn  him 
that  no  human  being  would  ever  sit  beside  him  there ;  a 
box  for  his  clothes  ;  a  small  sideboard  of  painted  pine,  half 
worm-eaten,  upon  which,  in  strange  contrast,  lay  a  rich 
dressing  case,  inlaid  with  silver  (the  only  relic  of  his 
former  splendor) ;  a  bed,  narrow  but  clean ;  a  couple  of 
blue  cotton  curtains,  which  hung  at  the  window,  as  if  in 
mockery ;  for  considering  the  size  of  the  iron  bars  and  the 
high  wall  opposite,  which  rose  ten  feet  in  the  air,  there 
was  no  cause  to  fear  either  curious  glances  or  the  oppres- 
sive rays  of  the  sun ;  such  was  the  furniture  of  his  room. 

Above  this  room  there  was  another,  precisely  like  his, 
but  empty,  unoccupied ;  for  he  had  no  companions  in  this 
detached  part  of  the  fortress. 

The  rest  of  his  universe  was  limited  to  a  short  and 
massive  stone  staircase,  winding  down  to  a  tiny  paved 
courtyard,  constructed  in  one  of  the  old  moats  of  the 
citadel. 

This  was  the  place  where,  for  two  hours  a  day,  he  was 
allowed  to  take  such  exercise  and  to  enjoy  such  liberty  as 
the  rules  laid  down  by  the  commanding  officer  permitted. 

Thence  the  prisoner  could  see  the  mountain  peaks  and 
the  mists  which  rose  from  the  plains ;  for  the  outworks  of 
the  fortress,  falling  away  abruptly  to  the  east  of  the  court- 

1  Having  no  books  or  writing  materials. 


PIC  CIO  LA.  11 

yard,  allowed  sun  and  air  to  enter.  But  once  inside  his 
room,  a  horizon  of  masonry  alone  met  his  gaze  in  the 
midst  of  the  sublime  and  picturesque  scenery  by  which  he 
was  surrounded.  On  his  right  bloomed  the  enchanted 
slopes  of  Saluces ; 1  on  his  left  were  the  valleys  of  Aosta 
and  the  banks  of  the  Chiara ;  before  him  lay  the  wondrous 
plains  of  Turin ;  behind  him  the  Alps  rose  peak  above 
peak,  decked  with  rocks,  forests,  and  chasms,  from  Mont 
Gen&vre  to  Mont  Cenis,  and  he  saw  nothing ;  nothing  but 
a  hazy  sky  hanging  above  his  head  in  a  framework  of 
stones ;  nothing  but  that  lofty  wall  opposite,  whose  weari- 
some monotony  was  only  broken  towards  the  end  of  it  by 
one  small  square  window,  through  the  bars  of  which  from 
time  to  time  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  sad  and  sullen  face. 

Such  was  the  limited  world  where  he  was  henceforth  to 
seek  his  amusements  and  find  his  joys. 

He  struggled  hard  to  do  so. 

He  scribbled,  he  scrawled  in  charcoal  on  the  walls  of 
his  room,  figures  and  dates  which  reminded  him  of  happy 
incidents  of  his  youth ;  but  how  few  they  were  !  These 
memories  did  but  leave  him  more  down-hearted  than  ever. 

Then  his  fatal  demon,  his  thoughts,  returned  with  their 
distressing  convictions  and  he  shaped  them  into  maxims 
which  he  did  not  hesitate  to  scratch  upon  his  walls,  side 
by  side  with  the  names  of  his  mother  and  sister. 

Longing  at  last  to  overcome  his  morbid  abstraction  and 
his  overwhelming  idleness,  he  strove  to  adapt  himself  to 
frivolous  and  childish  things ;  he  yielded  to  the  sluggish- 
ness produced  by  prolonged  imprisonment ;  he  revelled  in 
it,  he  wallowed  in  it  with  rapture. 

1  A  town  of  Northern  Italy. 


12  PICCIOLA. 

The  scholar  unravelled  linen  and  silk ! 

The  philosopher  made  reed  pipes ;  he  built  men-of-war 
of  nutshells ! 

The  man  of  genius  made  whistles,  carved  boxes  and 
openwork  baskets  of  fruit  stones !  The  revolutionist 
made  chains  and  musical  instruments  of  the  wire 
springs l  in  his  braces ! 

Then  he  fell  to  admiring  himself  in  his  works ;  then, 
soon  after,  he  was  seized  with  disgust,  and  he  trampled 
them  all  underfoot. 

To  vary  his  occupations,  he  carved  a  thousand  odd 
figures  on  his  table. 

Never  did  schoolboy  hack  his  desk,  or  load  it  with 
arabesques,  in  high  and  low  relief,  with  more  skill  and 
patience.  The  church  at  Caudebec,2  the  pulpit  and  palm 
trees  of  St.  Gudule,  the  cathedral  at  Brussels,  are  not 
adorned  with  a  greater  profusion  of  figures  on  wood. 
There  were  houses  upon  houses,  fishes  upon  trees,  men 
taller  than  the  steeples,  boats  upon  roofs,  carriages  in  the 
middle  of  a  lake,  dwarfed  pyramids,  and  giant  flies ;  all 
this,  horizontal,  vertical,  oblique,  upside  down,  topsy-turvy, 
pell-mell,  a  hieroglyphic  chaos,  where  he  sometimes  strug- 
gled to  find  a  symbolic  meaning,  a  sequence,  a  plot ;  for 
one  who  had  such  firm  faith  in  the  power  of  chance  might 
well  hope  to  find  a  perfect  poem  in  the  scratches  upon  his 
table,  like  a  drawing  by  Raphael 3  on  the  mottled  rims  of 
a  bit  of  boxwood. 

1  Elastic  had  not  then  been  invented. 

2  A  small  town  in  the  department  of  lower  Seine,  with  a  church  in  the 
florid  style  of  the  fifteenth  century. 

8  Raphael,  great  Italian  painter,  born  at  Urbino  1483,  died  1520. 


PICCIOLA.  13 

He  thus  tried  his  best  to  multiply  the  difficulties  to  be 
overcome,  the  problems  to  be  solved,  the  riddles  to  be 
guessed,  and  yet  tedium,  dread  tedium,  surprised  him  in 
the  midst  of  all  these  grave  cares  ! 

The  man  whose  face  he  had  seen  at  the  end  of  the  high 
wall  might  perhaps  have  afforded  him  more  genuine  diver- 
sion ;  but  this  fellow-prisoner  appeared  to  shun  his  gaze, 
withdrawing  from  his  grating  as  soon  as  the  Count  seemed 
to  look  at  him  with  any  attention.  Charney  at  once  took 
an  aversion  to  him. 

He  had  so  poor  an  opinion  of  mankind  that  this  move- 
ment to  retreat  was  all  that  was  needed  to  make  him  think 
that  the  unknown  was  a  spy  charged  to  watch  him  even 
in  the  leisure  of  his  prison,  or  an  ancient  enemy  enjoying 
his  misery  and  disgrace. 

When  he  questioned  the  gaoler  on  this  point,  the  latter 
tried  to  undeceive  him. 

"That  is  an  Italian,"  he  said;  "a  good  fellow,  a  good 
Christian,  for  I  often  find  him  saying  his  prayers." 

Charney  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"And  why  is  he  here  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  He  tried  to  kill  the  emperor." 

"So  he  is  a  patriot?  " 

"  A  patriot  ?  oh  !  no ;  but  the  poor  man  had  a  son  and 
a  daughter ;  he  has  only  a  daughter  now ;  and  his  son 
died  in  Germany.  ...  A  cannon  ball  carried  off  his 
head.  Povero  figliuolo  /  M  1 

"Then  it  was  only  an  outburst  of  egotism  !  "  muttered 
Charney. 

"  Zounds  !  you  are  not  a  father,  Signor  Conte"  said  the 
1  Poor  lad. 


14  PICCIOLA. 

gaoler.  f?  If  I  had  to  choose  between  my  little  Antonio, 
who  is  still  at  his  mother's  breast,  and  the  empire,  which 
is  just  about  the  same  age  as  he  is.  ...  Cristo  santo  ! 
But  silence,  I  don't  want  to  live  at  Fenestrella  except  with 
the  keys  at  my  belt  or  under  my  pillow." 

"And  what  are  the  present  occupations  of  this  bold 
conspirator? " 

"  He  catches  flies,"  said  the  gaoler  with  a  semi-jocose 
expression. 

Charney  no  longer  hated  his  neighbor  ;  he  despised 
him. 

ff  Is  he  crazy  ? "  he  exclaimed. 

"  Percht  pazzo^-  Count  ?  You  came  here  more  recently 
than  he  did,  and  you  are  already  a  master-hand  at  wood 
carving.  Pazienza  /  "  2 

In  spite  of  the  irony  contained  in  these  last  words, 
Charney  resumed  his  manual  labors  and  the  explanation 
of  his  hieroglyphics,  remedies  which  were  still  of  no  avail 
against  the  evils  which  tormented  him. 

Amid  these  trifling  occupations,  amid  these  trials,  the 
winter  wore  away. 

Happily  for  him  a  new  subject  of  diversion  soon  came 
to  his  aid. 

1  Why  crazy. 

2  Wait  awhile. 


CHAPTER    III. 

ONE  day,  at  the  set  hour,  Charney  was  walking  in  his 
courtyard,  his  head  bent,  his  arms  crossed  behind  his 
back,  pacing  slowly,  softly  up  and  down,  as  if  to  enlarge 
the  narrow  limits  which  he  was  permitted  to  traverse. 

Springtime  was  at  hand ;  a  gentler  air  filled  his  lungs, 
and  he  longed  to  be  at  liberty,  to  be  free  to  come  and  go. 

He  was  counting  the  paving  stones  of  the  little  yard 
one  by  one,  no  doubt  to  make  sure  of  the  correctness  of 
his  former  calculations,  for  it  was  not  by  any  means  the 
first  time  that  he  had  counted  them,  when  he  saw,  there, 
directly  in  front  of  him,  before  his  eyes,  a  tiny  hillock  of 
earth  slightly  upheaved  between  two  paving  stones  and 
gaping  wide  at  the  top. 

He  paused  and  his  heart  beat ;  he  knew  not  why.  But 
to  a  prisoner  everything  is  cause  for  hope  or  fear !  In 
the  most  indifferent  objects,  the  most  insignificant  event, 
he  seeks  some  miraculous  reason  which  may  lead  to  his 
rescue. 

Perhaps  this  slight  upheaval  of  the  surface  may  be  caused 
by  some  vast  works  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth  !  There  may 
be  passageways  underground  which  will  open  and  make  a 
road  for  him  to  pass  through  fields  and  mountains !  Per- 
haps his  friends  or  his  former  accomplices  are  sapping  and 
mining 1  to  get  at  him  and  restore  him  to  life  and  liberty  ! 

1 "  Sap,"  open  trenches  on  the  surface  of  the  ground.  w  Mine,"  under- 
ground galleries.  Both  are  used  when  approaching  a  fortified  place,  regu- 
larly besieged. 

IS 


16  P ICC  TOLA. 

He  listens  eagerly,  and  fancies  he  hears  a  dull,  long- 
drawn  sound  from  the  centre  of  the  fortress ;  he  lifts  his 
head,  and  the  air  in  commotion  bears  to  him  the  rapid 
strokes  of  an  alarm  bell.  The  roll  of  drums  runs  along 
the  ramparts,  as  a  signal  for  war.  He  shudders  and 
presses  a  quivering  hand  to  his  forehead,  which  is  moist 
with  apprehension. 

Is  he  really  to  be  set  free?  Has  France  changed 
masters  ? 

The  dream  lasted  but  a  second.  Reflection  dispelled 
the  illusion.  He  had  no  accomplices  now,  and  never  had 
a  friend !  He  listens  again ;  the  same  sounds  strike  his 
ear,  but  they  awaken  other  thoughts.  The  sound  of  the 
alarm  bell,  the  roll  of  the  drum  are  only  the  far-off  strokes 
of  a  church  clock  which  he  hears  every  day  at  the  same 
hour,  and  the  customary  call  to  arms,  which  need  startle 
none  but  a  few  laggard  soldiers  within  the  fortress. 

Charney  smiled  bitterly,  and  pitied  himself  when  he 
thought  that  an  insignificant  creature,  a  mole,  astray  from 
his  road  no  doubt,  a  field  mouse  scratching  the  earth 
beneath  his  feet,  had  led  him  to  put  faith  for  one  moment 
in  human  affection  and  the  overthrow  of  the  great 
empire ! 

However,  he  resolved  to  settle  the  question,  and  kneel- 
ing beside  the  little  mound,  he  delicately  removed  with 
his  finger  tip  first  one  side  of  the  divided  summit,  then 
the  other;  and  he  saw  with  amazement  that  the  swift 
and  fierce  emotion  which  had  overcome  him  for  an  instant 
was  not  even  caused  by  a  living  creature,  moving,  scratch- 
ing, armed  with  teeth  and  claws,  but  by  a  feeble  growth, 
barely  sprouted,  colorless  and  drooping. 


PICCIOLA.  17 

Rising  deeply  mortified,  he  was  about  to  tread  it  under- 
foot when  a  cool  breeze,  which  had  passed  over  bushes  of 
honeysuckle  and  hawthorn,  fanned  him,  as  if  imploring 
mercy  for  the  poor  plant,  which,  too,  might  perhaps  some 
day  have  sweet  perfumes  to  bestow. 

A  fresh  thought  struck  him  and  arrested  his  hasty  feel- 
ing of  disappointment. 

How  had  that  tender,  delicate  plantlet,  so  fragile  that 
a  touch  would  destroy  it,  managed  to  lift  up,  divide,  and 
cast  aside  that  soil  baked  and  hardened  by  the  sun,  trod- 
den down  by  himself,  and  almost  cemented  to  the  two 
fragments  of  stone  between  which  it  was  confined  ? 

He  again  stooped  and  studied  it  more  carefully. 

He  saw  at  its  tip  a  sort  of  double  fleshy  valve,  which, 
folding  over  the  first  leaves,  protected  them  from  the 
attack  of  any  hostile  body  and  enabled  them  to  pierce 
the  crust  of  earth  in  search  of  sunshine  and  air. 

"Ah!-"  he  exclaimed,  "here  we  have  the  whole  secret! 
Nature  has  provided  it  with  this  power,  just  as  little 
chickens,  before  they  are  hatched,  are  already  armed  with 
a  beak  strong  enough  to  break  the  thick  shell  that  con- 
tains them.  Poor  prisoner,  in  your  captivity  you  at  least 
possessed  tools  which  might  help  to  set  you  free  ! " 

He  gazed  at  it  for  some  moments  more,  and  no  longer 
dreamed  of  destroying  it. 

Next  day,  during  his  usual  walk,  striding  to  and  fro, 
lost  in  thought,  he  almost  stepped  on  it,  and  stopped 
short.  Surprised  at  the  interest  which  he  felt  in  his  new 
acquaintance,  he  noted  its  progress. 

The  plant  had  grown,  and  the  rays  of  the  sun  had  done 
away  with  much  of  that  sickly  pallor  which  it  had  on  first 


18  PICCIOLA. 

emerging  from  the  ground.  He  considered  that  sickly 
stunted  stalk's  power  of  absorbing  the  rays  of  light,  of 
feeding  on  them,  deriving  nourishment  from  them,  and 
borrowing  from  the  prison  the  colors  in  which  it  clothes 
itself,  colors  pre-assigned  to  each  of  its  parts. 

"Yes,  its  leaves,  no  doubt,'*  he  thought,  "will  be  a  dif- 
ferent color  from  the  stem  ;  and  then  the  flowers  !  What 
color  will  they  be,  yellow,  blue,  or  red  ?  Why,  being  fed 
with  the  same  juices  as  the  leaves  and  stem,  should  they 
not  wear  the  same  livery  ?  How  can  they  find  their  blue 
and  scarlet  where  the  others  could  find  only  dark  or  light 
green  ?  And  yet  such  will  be  the  case ;  for  in  spite  of 
the  confusion  and  disorder  of  things  in  general,  mat- 
ter follows  a  regular  course,  blind  though  it  be.  Blind, 
indeed !  "  he  repeated  ;  w  I  could  ask  no  better  proof  than 
those  two  fleshy  lobes  which  helped  the  plant  to  issue 
from  the  earth,  but  which  now,  useless  to  preserve  it, 
still  feed  upon  its  substance  and  hang  down  loosely, 
wearying  it  with  their  weight.  What  are  they  good 
for?" 

As  he  spoke,  and  as  night  was  close  at  hand,  a  spring 
night,  and  likely  to  be  chilly,  the  two  lobes  slowly  lifted 
before  his  eyes,  and  as  if  to  defend  themselves  against 
his  reproaches  they  drew  together  and  enclosed  within 
their  bosom,  to  protect  it  against  cold  and  the  attacks 
of  insects,  the  tender,  delicate  foliage  which  the  sun  was 
now  deserting,  and  which  thus,  sheltered  and  warm,  slept 
beneath  the  wings  which  the  plant  had  gently  folded 
over  it. 

The  learned  man  appreciated  this  silent  but  decisive 
reply  more  fully  when  he  saw  that  the  outer  surface  of 


P ICC  TOLA.  19 

the  vegetable  bivalve  had  been  gnawed  and  nibbled,  the 
night  before,  by  small  slugs  whose  slimy  traces  could  still 
be  seen. 

This  strange  conversation  between  thought  on  the 
one  hand  and  action  on  the  other,  between  the  man  and 
the  plant,  was  not  to  end  here.  Charney  had  not  given 
so  much  time  to  metaphysical  discussion  to  yield  so 
readily. 

"All  very  well,"  he  replied;  "here,  as  elsewhere,  a 
lucky  combination  of  circumstances  has  favored  this  fee- 
ble creature.  Born  with  a  crowbar  to  lift  the  earth,  and 
a  shield  to  protect  its  head,  it  had  two  requisites  for 
existence ;  without  them,  this  plant  must  have  died  in  its 
germ,  like  so  many  myriads  of  its  kind,  no  doubt  made  by 
Nature  imperfect,  incomplete,  unfit  to  grow  and  multiply, 
having  but  an  hour  to  live. 

"  How  can  we  tell  how  many  faulty  and  impotent  com- 
binations she  has  tried  before  she  succeeded  in  bringing 
forth  a  single  specimen  fitted  to  endure  ?  A  blind  man  may 
hit  the  mark ;  but  how  many  arrows  must  be  lost  before 
that  result  is  reached !  For  thousands  of  ages  a  double 
movement  of  attraction  and  repulsion  has  been  going  on 
in  matter ;  is  it  not  therefore  strange  that  chance  should 
hit  the  mark  so  often  ?  I  admit  that  this  envelope  may 
protect  the  first  leaves ;  but  will  it  grow,  will  it  increase 
to  shelter  and  protect  the  other  leaves  as  well,  against 
the  cold  and  the  attacks  of  their  enemies  ?  No  !  Next 
spring,  when  other  leaves  put  forth,  as  tender,  as  frail  as 
these,  will  it  be  there  to  protect  them  ?  No  !  thus  there 
is  no  foresight  here ;  this  is  not  the  work  of  intelligent 
thought,  but  rather  of  some  happy  chance  !  " 


20  PICCIOLA. 

Sir  Count,  Nature  has  more  than  one  answer  in  reserve 
to  refute  your  arguments.  Wait  and  watch  her  in  this 
frail  and  solitary  product  of  her  hands,  cast  into  the  court- 
yard of  your  prison,  in  the  midst  of  your  sorrows,  perhaps 
less  by  accident  than  by  the  kindly  prevision  of  Provi- 
dence. Those  excrescences,  which  you  yourself  have 
already  discovered  to  be  a  crowbar  and  a  shield,  have  ren- 
dered other  services  as  well  to  the  feeble  plant.  Wrap- 
ping it  warmly  in  the  frozen  earth  through  the  winter, 
when  the  proper  time  came  they  nourished  and  fed  it, 
when,  a  mere  germ,  it  had  as  yet  no  roots  to  send  forth 
in  search  of  the  earth's  moisture,  no  leaves  to  breathe  in 
air  and  sunshine. 

You  are  right,  Count ;  those  protecting  wings  which 
now  brood  so  lovingly  over  the  young  plant  will  not  grow 
with  its  growth ;  they  will  drop  off,  but  not  before  their 
work  is  done  and  their  nursling,  having  gained  strength 
to  resist,  can  do  without  them.  Do  not  fear  for  its  future ; 
Nature  watches  over  this  weed  as  she  does  over  its  sister 
plants ;  and  so  long  as  the  north  winds  bring  down  chill 
mists  and  snowflakes  from  the  Alps,  the  young  leaves 
will  find  safe  shelter,  a  refuge  prepared  for  them,  shielded 
from  contact  with  the  air,  made  impervious  with  gums 
and  resins,  expanding  with  their  needs,  and  only  opening 
at  propitious  times  and  seasons.  The  leaves  will  not  peep 
forth  until  they  are  clad  in  warm  furs,  in  fleecy  down 
which  will  protect  them  from  the  late  frosts  and  atmos- 
pheric changes. 

Did  any  mother  ever  watch  more  lovingly  over  her 
children  ?  These  things  you  would  have  known  long 
since,  Sir  Count,  if,  stooping  from  the  abstract  regions 


PICCIOLA.  21 

<•. 

of  human  knowledge,  you  had  ever  deigned  to  lower  your 
gaze  to  the  simple,  humble  works  of  God.  The  farther 
you  turned  toward  the  north,  the  more  apparent  these 
everyday  miracles  would  be  to  you.  As  danger  increases, 
Providence  redoubles  his  care  ! 

The  philosopher  had  attentively  followed  all  the  changes 
and  growth  of  the  plant.  Once  more  he  had  striven  against 
it  in  argument,  and  again  it  had  an  apt  answer  for  every- 
thing ! 

"  What  is  the  use  of  those  bristles  up  and  down  your 
stem  ?  "  he  asked. 

And  next  day  he  found  them  laden  with  hoarfrost, 
which,  thanks  to  them,  was  kept  at  a  distance  and  could 
not  chill  the  tender  rind. 

"What  will  you  do  in  fine  weather  with  your  warm 
mantle  of  down  ?  " 

Fine  weather  had  come,  and  she  laid  aside  her  winter 
cloak  before  his  very  eyes,  and  put  on  her  green  spring 
dress,  and  her  new  twigs  sprang  to  life  without  those 
silky  wrappers,  which  were  now  unnecessary. 

"  But  if  a  storm  should  burst,  the  wind  will  break  you, 
and  the  hail  will  tear  your  tender  leaves  into  pieces  ! " 

The  wind  blew,  and  the  young  plant,  still  far  too  frail 
to  contend  against  it,  bowed  to  the  earth,  protecting  her- 
self by  yielding.  The  hail  came,  and  by  a  fresh  manoeuvre, 
the  leaves,  closing  in  against  the  stalk  for  shelter,  pressed 
together  for  mutual  protection,  opposing  only  their  reverse 
to  the  blows  of  the  enemy,  and  opposing  their  firm  ribs 
to  the  weight  of  the  storm  king's  missiles ;  union  was 
strength ;  now,  as  heretofore,  the  plant  issued  from  the 
conflict,  not  without  trifling  injuries,  but  still  hale  and 


22  PICCIOLA. 

* 

hearty,  and  ready  to  expand  in  the  sun,  which  would  heal 
her  wounds. 

"Can  chance  be  intelligent?"  cried  Charney;  "are  we 
to  regard  matter  as  spiritual,  or  mind  as  material  ?  "  And 
he  continued  to  question  the  silent  speaker  ;  he  loved  to 
see  her  grow  and  to  follow  her  in  her  gradual  changes. 

One  day,  when  he  had  studied  her  for  a  long  time,  he 
caught  himself  lost  in  dreams  beside  her,  and  his  dreams 
were  of  unwonted  sweetness,  and  he  was  glad  to  go  on 
with  them  as  he  paced  up  and  down  the  courtyard.  Then, 
lifting  his  head,  he  saw  at  the  barred  window  in  the  wall 
the  "flycatcher,"  who  seemed  to  be  watching  him.  At 
first  he  blushed,  as  if  that  man  could  read  his  thoughts, 
and  then  he  smiled  at  him,  for  he  no  longer  despised  him. 
Had  he  any  right  to  do  so  ?  Was  not  he,  too,  wholly 
absorbed  in  the  study  of  one  of  the  smallest  creations  of 
nature  ? 

"Who  knows,"  he  mused,  "  whether  that  Italian  may 
not  have  discovered  in  a  fly  as  many  things  worthy  of 
consideration  as  I  have  found  in  my  plant  ?  " 

On  his  return  to  his  room  the  first  thing  which  caught 
his  eye  was  that  fatalistic  axiom  inscribed  by  him  on  the 
wall  two  months  before  : 

"  Chance  is  blind,  and  it  alone  is  the  father  of  the 
creation." 

He  took  a  piece  of  charcoal  and  wrote  below  : 

"Perhaps?1 


CHAPTER    IV. 

CHARNEY  no  longer  wrote  upon  his  wall  ;  he  carved  on 
his  table  nothing  but  young  shoots  protected  by  their 
seed  lobes,  leaves  with  their  varied  outlines  and  their 
salient  ribs.  He  spent  the  greater  part  of  his  hours  of 
exercise  bending  over  his  plant,  examining  it,  studying  its 
growth ;  and  on  his  return  to  his  cell,  he  often  stood  and 
gazed  at  it  through  the  bars. 

This  was  now  his  favorite  occupation  —  the  prisoner's 
toy,  his  hobby.  Would  he  weary  of  this  as  readily  as  of 
all  the  rest  ? 

One  morning  from  his  window  he  saw  the  gaoler,  cross- 
ing the  yard  with  a  hasty  step,  pass  so  near  the  plant 
that  it  seemed  as  if  he  must  have  crushed  it  with  his  foot. 
The  prisoner  shuddered  at  the  thought. 

When  Ludovic  brought  him  his  scanty  breakfast,  he 
tried  to  implore  him  to  spare  the  only  ornament  of  his 
daily  walk ;  but  he  knew  not  how  to  frame  his  modest 
request. 

Perhaps  the  sanitary  rules  of  the  prison  demanded  the 
removal  of  that  vegetable  parasite ;  so  that  he  might  be 
asking  a  favor,  and  he  had  but  little  with  which  to  pay  for 
that  which  he  valued  so  highly.  Ludovic  had  already 
fleecec}  him  desperately,  overcharging  him  for  all  the  trifles 
which  the  gaoler  is  allowed  to  furnish  the  prisoners ! 
Besides,  until  now  Charney  had  but  seldom  spoken  to  the 
fellow,  whose  abrupt  manners  and  sordid  nature  repelled 
him.  No  doubt  the  gaoler  would  be  ill-disposed  to  gratify 

23 


24  PICCIOLA. 

him.  Then  his  pride  suffered  at  the  idea  of  showing  his 
tastes  to  be  on  a  level,  or  very  nearly  so,  with  those  of  the 
"flycatcher/'  his  contempt  for  whom  he  had  declared  so 
openly.  And  finally  he  might  meet  with  a  refusal ;  for 
the  inferior,  whose  office  gives  him  the  temporary  right  to 
permit  or  refuse,  almost  always  makes  a  cruel  use  of  his 
power;  he  does  not  know  that  indulgence  is  a  proof  of 
strength. 

A  refusal  would  wound  the  noble  prisoner  alike  in  his 
hopes  and  in  his  pride. 

Accordingly,  it  was  not  without  countless  oratoric  pre- 
cautions, or  until  he  had  fortified  himself  with  his  philo- 
sophic knowledge  of  human  weaknesses,  that  Charney 
began  his  address,  carefully  arranged  in  his  head,  so  that 
he  might  achieve  his  end  without  compromising  his  self- 
respect  or,  rather,  his  vanity. 

He  began  by  addressing  the  gaoler  in  Italian ;  this  was 
meant  to  arouse  his  memories  of  childhood  and  nationality. 
He  spoke  of  his  son,  his  little  Antonio ;  he  knew  how  to 
appeal  to  his  weak  point  and  compel  him  to  listen ;  then, 
taking  a  silver-gilt  cup  from  his  elegant  dressing  case,  he 
begged  him  to  give  it  to  the  child  from  him. 

Ludovic  smiled  and  refused. 

Charney,  although  somewhat  discouraged,  did  not  admit 
that  he  was  defeated.  He  insisted,  and  with  a  skilful 
transition  :  "  I  know/'  he  said,  "that  playthings,  a  rattle, 
a  few  flowers,  would  perhaps  please  him  better  ;  but  you 
can  sell  this  cup,  my  good  fellow,  and  use  the  money  to 
buy  what  you  like  for  him." 

He  then  came  out  with  a  :  "But,  speaking  of  flowers  !  " 
which  brought  him  to  his  subject. 


PICCIOLA.  25 

Thus  patriotism,  parental  love,  childish  memories,  per- 
sonal interest,  those  great  incentives  of  humanity,  were 
all  used  by  him  to  attain  his  ends.  What  more  could 
he  have  done  had  his  own  fate  been  at  stake  ?  Judge 
whether  he  loved  his  plant ! 

"Count,"  said  Ludovic  when  he  paused,  "keep  your 
nacchera  dorata;^  the  other  jewels  in  your  pretty  box  would 
mourn  its  absence.  You  forget  that  my  caro  bambino* 
is  only  three  months  old  and  can  as  yet  drink  without  a 
goblet.  As  for  your  gillyflower — " 

"  What,  a  gillyflower  !  Is  it  a  gillyflower  ?  "  cried  Char- 
ney,  foolishly  disappointed  to  find  that  he  had  lavished 
such  care  on  so  ordinary  a  flower. 

"  Odd  zounds  !  I  know  nothing  about  it,  Signor  Conte. 
To  my  eyes  all  plants  are  more  or  less  gillyflowers ;  I  know 
nothing  about  such  things.  But  if  it  comes  to  that,  you 
are  rather  late  in  recommending  it  to  my  mercy.  I  should 
have  trampled  it  down  long  ago,  with  no  idea  of  hurting 
either  you  or  the  fair  one  in  question,3  if  I  had  not  seen 
the  tender  interest  you  take  in  it." 

"Oh!  my  interest,"  said  Charney,  somewhat  embar- 
rassed, "is  easily  explained." 

"Tut,  tut,  tut,  I  know  what  I  am  talking  about,"  replied 
Ludovic,  trying  to  wink  knowingly;  "a  man  must  have 
some  occupation ;  he  must  have  something  to  love ;  and 
a  poor  prisoner  has  not  much  choice.  I  can  tell  you, 
Count,  we  have  lodgers  here  who  were  very  fine  gentlemen 
in  their  day,  tiptop  scholars  (for  it  is  not  the  small  fry 
that  come  here) ;  well !  they  put  up  with  cheap  amuse- 
ments now,  I  assure  you.  One  of  them  catches  flies ; 

1  Gilded  toy.  2  Dear  little  boy.  s  The  plant. 


26  P1CCIOLA. 

another,"  he  added  with  another  wink  which  he  tried  to 
make  even  more  significant  than  the  first,  "  another  hacks 
out  pictures  on  his  pine  table  without  ever  considering 
that  I  am  responsible  for  the  furniture  here." 

The  Count  tried  to  get  in  a  word,  but  was  not 
allowed. 

"  Some  raise  canaries  and  goldfinches,  some  train  little 
white  mice.  As  for  me,  I  respect  their  tastes,  and  to  such 
an  extent,  bless  you  !  that  I  had  a  magnificent  cat,  a  huge 
fellow  with  long  white  hair,  a  real  Angora ;  he  ran  about 
and  played  and  was  the  prettiest  thing  in  the  world,  and 
when  he  took  his  nap  you  would  have  taken  him  for  a 
lady's  muff;  my  wife  was  just  crazy  over  him,  and  so  was 
I ;  and  yet  I  gave  him  away,  for  that  small  game  might 
tempt  him;  and  all  the  cats  in  the  world  are  not  worth  one 
mouse  to  a  prisoner !  " 

"  That  was  very  good  of  you,  Mr.  Ludovic,"  replied 
Charney,  feeling  ill  at  ease  that  any  one  should  fancy  he 
cared  for  such  childish  things ;  w  but  this  plant  is  more 
than  a  mere  amusement  to  me." 

"  Never  mind !  If  it  do  but  remind  you  of  the  green 
tree  under  which  your  mother  rocked  you  when  you  were 
little,  by  Jove  !  it  may  shade  half  the  courtyard.  Besides, 
there  is  not  a  word  about  such  things  in  the  rules,  and  I 
shall  keep  my  eyes  shut.  If  it  should  grow  into  a  tree 
and  you  could  use  it  to  scale  the  wall,  that  would  be  a 
very  different  matter !  But  there 's  plenty  of  time  to 
consider  that,  is  n't  there  ?"  he  added  with  a  hearty  laugh; 
"  not  that  I  don't  wish  with  my  whole  heart  that  I  could 
give  you  the  key  to  the  fields  and  the  free  use  of  your  legs ; 
but  that  will  come  in  due  time,  according  to  rule  and  law, 


PICCIOLA.  27 

with  official  permission.  Oh  !  if  you  were  to  try  to  escape 
from  the  fortress  — 

"  What  should  you  do  ?  " 

w  What  should  I  do  ?  Thunder !  I  should  block  your 
way  even  if  you  were  to  kill  me ;  or  I  would  order  the 
sentinel  to  shoot  you,  with  no  more  mercy  than  if  you  were 
a  rabbit ;  those  are  my  orders.  But  as  for  touching  a  single 
leaf  of  your  gillyflower !  Oh  !  no,  no  !  Put  my  foot  on 
it !  Never !  I  have  always  considered  that  man  an  utter 
wretch,  unworthy  to  be  a  gaoler,  who  maliciously  crushed 
the  poor  prisoner's  spider.1  That  was  a  wicked  deed ;  it 
was  a  crime  !  " 

Charney  was  both  touched  and  surprised  to  find  so 
much  feeling  in  his  gaoler ;  but  for  the  very  reason  that 
he  began  to  esteem  him  a  little  more,  his  vanity  persisted 
in  ascribing  to  scientific  motives  the  interest  which  he 
took  in  the  plant. 

ff  My  dear  Mr.  Ludovic,"  said  he,  W.I  thank  you  for  your 
kind  words.  Yes,  I  admit  that  this  plant  is  the  source  of 
many  observations  —  philosophic  observations  which  are 
full  of  interest.  I  love  to  study  its  physiological  phenom- 
ena." And  as  the  gaoler  showed  by  a  nod  that  he  heard 
but  did  not  understand,  he  added :  "  Moreover,  the  species 
to  which  it  belongs,  possesses  medicinal  properties  very 
beneficial  in  certain  serious  ailments  to  which  I  am 
subject ! " 

He  lied  ;  but  it  would  have  cost  him  too  much  to  admit 
that  he  had  sunk  to  the  childish  whims  of  ordinary  prison- 
ers to  this  man  who  had  just  risen  a  degree  in  his  opinion  — 

1  An  allusion  to  Pelissier  and  his  tame  spider,  on  which  the  governor  of 
the  Bastille  cruelly  trod. 


28  PICCIOLA. 

the  only  person  who  ever  came  near  him,  and  who  now, 
to  him,  summed  up  all  mankind. 

"Well,  if  your  plant  has  done  you  so  much  good, 
Count/'  replied  Ludovic,  turning  to  leave  the  room, 
"you  ought  to  show  yourself  more  grateful  to  it  and 
water  it  sometimes ;  for  if  I  had  not  taken  pains  to  wet 
it  now  and  then  when  I  brought  you  your  supply  of  drink- 
ing water,  the  povera  Picciola  (the  poor  little  thing)  would 
have  died  of  thirst.  Addio,  Signer  Conte!  " 

"One  moment,  my  good  Ludovic!"  cried  Charney, 
more  and  more  surprised  to  find  such  delicate  instincts 
contained  in  so  rude  a  frame,  and  almost  repenting  that 
he  had  not  appreciated  them  before.  "  What !  you  take 
heed  for  my  pleasure  and  you  said  nothing  to  me  !  Ah  ! 
I  implore  you,  accept  this  little  present  as  a  token  of  my 
gratitude.  If  later  on  I  can  pay  my  debt  to  you  more 
fully,  rely  on  me." 

And  he  again  offered  him  the  silver-gilt  cup.  Ludovic 
took  it,  and,  examining  it  with  a  sort  of  curiosity : 

"  Pay  me  for  what,  Signor  Conte?  Plants  ask  for  noth- 
ing but  water,  and  a  man  may  treat  them  to  drink  without 
spending  all  he  has  at  the  tavern.  If  it  diverts  you  unpoco J 
from  your  troubles,  if  it  bears  good  fruit  for  you,  that  is 
enough." 

And  he  replaced  the  cup  in  the  dressing  case. 

The  Count  stepped  towards  Ludovic  and  offered  him 
his  hand. 

"Oh  !  no,  no,"  said  the  gaoler,  drawing  back  with  a  look 
of  respect  and  constraint.  "You  should  only  give  your 
hand  to  your  equal  or  your  friend." 

1  A  little. 


PICCIOLA.  29 

"  Well !     Ludovic,  be  my  friend  !  " 

"No,  no,"  repeated  the  gaoler,  "that  may  not  be,  eccel- 
We  should  always  think  beforehand,  so  that  we 
may  do  our  duty  conscientiously,  now  and  in  the  future. 
If  you  were  my  friend,  and  you  tried  to  give  us  the  slip, 
should  I  have  the  courage  to  shout  to  the  sentinel, f  Fire  '  ? 
No,  I  am  your  keeper,  your  gaoler,  and  divotissimo  servo."  2 

1  Your  worship. 

2  Most  obedient  servant. 


CHAPTER    V. 

WHEN  Ludovic  had  gone,  Charney  reflected  how  supe- 
rior he,  with  his  personal  advantages,  had  always  held 
himself  to  this  rough  fellow  in  all  their  intercourse. 
To  what  paltry  subterfuges  he  had  had  recourse  to  sur- 
prise the  heart  of  that  simple,  kindly  nature !  He  had 
not  blushed  to  stoop  to  a  lie ! 

How  grateful  he  was  for  the  secret  attentions  lavished 
on  his  plant !  What !  that  gaoler,  whom  he  fancied 
capable  of  refusing  merely  to  abstain  from  an  evil  act, 
had  even  anticipated  his  wishes !  He  had  watched  him, 
not  to  mock  at  his  weakness,  but  to  befriend  his  pleas- 
ures, and  his  generosity  forced  the  noble  Count  to  acknowl- 
edge himself  his  debtor. 

The  hour  for  exercise  had  come,  and  Charney  did  not 
forget  to  share  his  portion  of  water  with  his  plant.  Not 
content  with  this,  he  took  care  to  remove  the  dust  which 
clogged  its  leaves  and  the  vermin  which  attacked  them. 

And  while  busy  with  this  task  he  thinks  of  Ludovic  ;  he 
longs  to  know  him  better,  to  find  an  explanation  of  the 
strange  contrasts  afforded  by  the  character  of  one  who 
was  both  rough  and  gentle,  merciless  and  full  of  pity, 
miserly  and  generous. 

He  who  was  once  so  interested  in  the  fall  of  ancient 
empires,  the  migrations  of  races,  the  exploits,  the  con- 
quests of  Cyrus,  Alexander,  and  Genghis  Khan,  now  asks 
nothing  of  the  great  world  history  save  the  history  of  his 
gaoler. 

30 


PICCIOLA.  31 

By  dint  of  questions,  suppositions,  and  logical  deduc- 
tions he  learned  thus  much  from  Ludovic  himself. 

Ludovic  Ritti,  a  Piedmontese,  was  born  at  Nice,1  the 
compatriot  and  contemporary  of  Massena.2  Children  of 
the  same  part  of  the  town,  schoolmates,  and  playmates 
out  of  school  hours,  they  lived  side  fry  side. 

But  from  their  earliest  youth,  in  accord  with  their  dif- 
ferent characters,  if  they  played  horse,  Ludovic  was  the 
horse  and  Massena  the  driver;  if  they  stole  fruit  from 
a  neighbor's  garden,  Ludovic  acted  as  ladder,  Massena 
climbed  the  wall  and  contrived  to  keep  the  lion's  share ; 
if  they  went  poaching  in  the  woods,  Ludovic  beat  the 
bushes,  and  Mass6na  was  the  hunter. 

Thus  the  friends  grew  up  together,  roamed  the  world 
together,  together  entered  the  republican  army,  and 
together  took  out  their  naturalization  papers,  not  in  the 
usual  way,  by  declaring  themselves  Frenchmen,  but  by 
helping  France  to  make  their  own  country  hers. 

At  this  time,  to  be  sure,  Massena  was  a  general,  while 
Ludovic  still  wore  his  first  worsted  epaulettes.3  One  was 
born  to  rule,  the  other  to  obey. 

Yes,  to  obey  passively,  blindly,  completely.  Such  was 
Ludovic's  second  nature,  his  instinctive  need.  He  was  a 
Russian,  a  mere  instrument  of  war,  moving  at  the  pleasure 
of  the  hand  which  guided  him.  His  chiefs  command  to 
him  was  like  the  order  of  God  himself  ;  his  movements 
were  so  completely  in  accord  with  the  word  of  command, 
that  even  in  the  thickest  of  the  fight,  even  with  an  enemy's 

1  Chief  town  in  the  department  of  the  Maritime  Alps. 

2  A  marshal  under  Napoleon  I. 

8  As  private  or  noncommissioned  officer. 


32  PICCIOLA. 

pistol  at  his  head,  he  would  have  paused,  sword  in  air, 
without  striking,  had  a  sign  proclaimed  the  close  of  hos- 
tilities. 

Although  very  brave,  Ludovic  would  never  be  carried 
away  by  his  ardor,  and  would  not  have  moved  one  step 
from  the  ranks,  either  backward  or  forward.  If  he  never 
did  any  great  deed  during  his  campaigns,  it  was  merely 
because  it  was  never  ordered. 

If  his  sergeant  had  offered  him  a  glass  of  ink  instead  of 
his  ration  of  brandy,  and  said,  "  Drink  it !  "  he  would  have 
swallowed  it  without  wincing. 

In  the  terrible  year  1795,  amidst  the  snow  of  the  Alps, 
when  he  and  his  mates  marched  barefoot  and  with  empty 
stomachs,  if  any  of  them  grumbled,  Ludovic  would  say 
calmly,  "  But  those  are  our  orders. " 

Severely  wounded  at  Marengo,  and  slightly  crippled  by 
a  ball  which  lodged  in  the  fleshy  part  of  his  thigh,  he  was 
compelled  to  retire  from  service. 

Great  was  his  embarrassment.  All  he  had  gained  by 
his  campaigns  and  his  stay  in  Germany,  Italy,  and  various 
parts  of  France  was  a  wonderful  faculty  for  swearing  in 
four  or  five  different  tongues. 

Returning  to  Nice,  to  his  native  city,  condemned  to  a 
sedentary  life,  his  own  master,  with  no  guiding  hand  over 
him,  he  was  at  a  loss  to  direct  his  movements  or  to  arrange 
his  life. 

His  only  diversion,  his  only  pleasure,  his  only  joy  was 
to  watch  the  garrison  drill,  and  to  keep  step  with  them 
as  the  guard  came  on  duty  or  went  off. 

He  went  home  to  bed  every  night  when  he  heard  the 
tattoo ;  but  the  drum  no  longer  sounded  for  his  meals  and 


PICCIOLA.  33 

for  his  rising ;  in  the  everyday  acts  of  life  there  was  no 
one  to  shout,  "  Right  about  face  !  Forward  march  !  "  And 
what  could  he  make  of  an  existence  which  he  must  fashion 
for  himself  ?  Obedience  is  so  sweet  to  indolent  spirits ! 
And  then  habit  makes  it  a  necessity. 

To  put  an  end  to  this  perplexing  situation,  Ludovic 
took  a  desperate  resolve. 

He  married. 

In  his  home  he  showed  the  same  passive  obedience 
which  had  distinguished  him  in  the  army.  As  if  all  good 
things  were  to  fall  to  his  lot  at  once,  thanks  to  his  old 
friend  Massena,  the  situation  of  gaoler  at  Fenestrella, 
then  vacant,  was  given  him.  He  had  thus  two  com- 
manders instead  of  one  —  his  wife  and  his  superior 
officer. 

His  wife,  younger  than  he,  was  considered  quite  a  pretty 
girl  when  he  married  her,  in  spite  of  a  large  goitre ; l  but 
being  ill-tempered  and  extremely  avaricious,  she  compelled 
Ludovic,  who  was  naturally  generous,  to  fleece  the  prison- 
ers for  all  the  trifles  which  he  was  allowed  to  furnish  them. 

However,  in  spite  of  his  wife's  commands,  he  would 
never  accept  the  slightest  present  from  them,  aside  from 
his  functions  as  purveyor;  for  this  matter  being  known 
only  within  the  walls  of  the  prison,  and  out  of  his  wife's 
sight,  concerned  no  one  but  himself;  and  then,  besides, 
those  were  his  orders. 

Thus  there  were  in  Ludovic  three  distinct  characteris- 
tics, according  as  he  was  ruled  in  turn  by  his  command- 
ing officer,  his  wife,  and  his  own  instincts.  Merciless 

1  A  swelling  of  the  glands  of  the  throat ;  a  common  disease  in  Alpine 
regions. 


34  PICCIOLA. 

where  the  prison  discipline  was  concerned,  here  his  supe- 
rior officer  came  into  play  ;  grasping  with  the  prisoners 
here  his  wife's  hand  showed ;  but  a  good  fellow,  kindly, 
generous,  and  compassionate,  where  the  commander  or 
the  mistress  of  his  house  did  not  whisper  in  his  ear  and 
inspire  him  with  harshness  or  avarice,  such  was  his  own 
disposition.  . 

If  you  care  for  a  more  exact  likeness  of  Ludovic  Ritti, 
he  was  forty,  dark  complexion,  thick  beard,  broad  shoul- 
ders, medium  height,  and  strongly  built.  Picture  him 
moving  across  the  prison  yards,  limping  slightly,  smoking 
a  short  black  pipe,  uttering  frequent  oaths  in  French, 
Provencal,  Italian,  or  German,  affecting  a  slight  wink  when 
he  wants  to  assume  a  knowing  air,  easily  pleased  by  the 
mention  of  his  son  Antonio  or  the  idea  of  a  good  deed, 
and  you  will  know  of  him  all  that  Charney  himself  knew, 
perhaps  more  than  it  was  needful  to  know. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A  FEW  days  later,  at  the  appointed  hour,  Charney  was 
at  his  post  beside  his  plant,  when  he  saw  a  great  black 
cloud  darken  the  sky  and  hang  poised  like  a  gloomy  roof 
over  the  tall  turrets  of  the  fortress.  Some  large  drops  of 
rain  began  to  fall ;  retracing  his  steps,  he  was  about  to 
reenter  in  search  of  shelter  when  hailstones,  mingled 
with  the  rain,  suddenly  rattled  down  on  the  pavement. 

The  povera?-  twisted  by  the  storm,  its  branches  blown 
furiously  about,  seemed  about  to  be  uprooted  ;  its  drenched 
leaves,  whirled  hither  and  thither,  shuddering  in  the  blast, 
seemed  to  utter  plaintive  groans  and  shrieks  of  distress. 

Charney  paused.  He  remembered  Ludovic's  reproaches 
and  glanced  eagerly  about  him  in  search  of  something  with 
which  to  shield  his  plant ;  he  saw  nothing ;  but  the  hail- 
stones fell  thicker  and  more  heavily  than  ever  and  threat- 
ened to  break  it.  He  trembled  for  it,  for  the  plant  which 
he  had  once  seen  resist  with  such  courage  the  force  of 
wind  and  storm ;  but  now  he  loved  his  plant  too  well  to 
let  it  run  the  risk  of  any  danger  for  the  sake  of  winning 
his  point. 

Coming  to  a  resolve  worthy  of  a  lover,  worthy  of  a 
father,  he  drew  near  it ;  he  placed  himself  before  his  ward, 
like  a  wall  between  it  and  the  wind ;  he  stooped  over  his 
nursling,  acting  as  a  shield  against  the  blows  of  the  hail ; 
and  thus,  motionless,  gasping  for  breath,  beaten  by  the 
storm  from  which  he  sheltered  it,  protecting  it  with  his 

1  Poor  little  thing. 
35 


36  PICCIOLA. 

hands,  his  body,  his  head,  and  his  affection,  he  waited  for 
the  storm  to  pass  over. 

It  passed.  But  might  not  a  similar  danger  threaten  it 
again,  when  he,  its  protector,  was  under  lock  and  key  ? 
Nay,  more ;  Ludovic's  wife,  escorted  by  a  big  watchdog, 
sometimes  visited  the  yard.  Might  not  this  dog  in  frisk- 
ing about  destroy  the  philosopher's  joy  with  a  snap  or  a 
stroke  of  his  paw  ?  Made  more  prudent  by  experience, 
Charney  devoted  the  rest  of  the  day  to  revolving  some 
plan,  and  next  day  he  prepared  to  carry  it  out. 

His  scanty  portion  of  firewood  was  hardly  enough  in 
that  changeable  climate  where  even  in  midsummer  the 
nights  and  mornings  are  often  cold.  What  matter  ?  What 
were  a  few  days  of  privation  ?  Had  he  not  the  warmth  of 
his  bed  ?  He  would  lie  down  earlier,  he  would  get  up 
later.  Stingy  with  his  fuel,  he  hoards  it  up ;  and  when 
Ludovic  questions  him  he  says  : 

"  It  is  to  build  a  palace  for  my  lady  love." 

The  gaoler  winked,  as  if  he  understood ;  but  he  had  no 
idea  what  was  meant. 

Meantime  Charney  split,  cut,  and  sharpened  his  fagots, 
selecting  the  most  pliant  branches,  carefully  saving  the 
flexible  willow  withes  which  serve  to  bind  up  his  daily 
stock  of  fuel.  Then  in  his  trunk  he  discovers  a  piece  of 
coarse  cloth  of  loose,  open  texture,  with  which  it  is  lined ; 
he  tears  it  out,  ravels  the  strongest,  coarsest  threads. 
His  materials  thus  prepared,  he  sets  bravely  to  work,  as 
rapidly  as  the  prison  discipline  and  his  gaoler's  rigid  con- 
science will  permit. 

Driving  between  the  paving  stones  around  his  plant 
strong  sticks  of  various  sizes,  he  strengthens  them  still 


PICCIOLA.  37 

more  by  means  of  cement,  composed  of  earth  laboriously 
collected  here  and  there  between  the  paving  stones,  of 
saltpetre  and  plaster  secretly  snatched  from  the  damp 
walls  of  the  old  moats  of  the  fortress.  The  principal 
parts  of  the  framework  thus  arranged,  he  interlaces  them 
with  slender  twigs,  forming  a  sort  of  screen,  fit  in  case  of 
need  to  protect  the  povera  from  contact  with  a  foreign 
body  or  from  the  approach  of  the  dog.  He  was  greatly 
encouraged  in  his  work  by  the  fact  that  Ludovic,  who, 
when  he  first  began  his  task,  seemed  uncertain  whether 
to  let  him  go  on,  shook  his  head  and  uttered  a  suppressed 
growl,  of  evil  omen,  has  now  accepted  it ;  and  even  some- 
times, quietly  smoking  his  pipe  at  the  farther  end  of  the 
yard,  leaning  against  the  entrance,  one  leg  crossed  over 
the  other,  watches  the  as  yet  inexperienced  workman  with 
a  smile ;  then  interrupts  the  pleasure  of  his  pipe  to  give 
a  bit  of  good  advice,  by  which  Charney  is  not  always  able 
to  profit. 

However,  the  work  progresses.  Before  he  finishes  it 
Charney  despoils  his  thin  prison  pallet  in  favor  of  his 
plant.  Another  sacrifice  which  he  makes  for  it.  He  bor- 
rows from  his  mattress  material  for  some  scanty  mats 
and  arranges  them,  as  best  he  may,  about  his  scaffolding, 
according  as  stormy  winds  blow  from  the  Alps,  or  the 
sun  at  high  noon  may  plunge  its  rays  too  directly  on  the 
delicate  growth. 

One  night  the  wind  blew  violently.  Charney,  who  was 
locked  in  his  cell,  saw  from  his  window  that  the  courtyard 
was  strewed  with  bits  of  straw  and  small  twigs.  His 
matting  and  the  texture  of  his  screen  were  not  woven 
with  sufficient  strength.  He  promised  himself  to  repair 


38  PICCIOLA. 

the  damage  next  day ;  but  next  day,  when  he  sallied 
forth,  the  work  was  already  done.  Some  hand  more 
skilful  than  his  own  had  solidly  repaired  the  interlaced 
branches  and  the  mats,  and  he  knew  in  his  heart  whom 
he  had  to  thank  for  it. 

Thus,  thanks  to  him,  thanks  to  them,  the  plant  was 
surrounded  by  ramparts  and  shields;  and  he,  Charney 
himself,  growing  ever  prouder  and  prouder  of  it,  raptur- 
ously watched  it  as  it  grew  and  strengthened  and  con- 
stantly produced  fresh  marvels  for  him  to  admire. 

Time  seemed  to  harden  it ;  the  tiny  blade  became  a 
stalk ;  the  woody  substance  about  its  stalk,  at  first  so 
frail,  daily  gave  greater  pledges  of  its  endurance,  and 
its  happy  owner  was  seized  with  a  curious  and  impatient 
desire  to  see  it  blossom. 

He  longed  for  something  at  last  —  the  man  of  worn-out 
feeling  and  dispassionate  mind ;  the  man  so  proud  of 
his  intellect  had  stooped  from  the  height  of  his  proud 
learning  to  concentrate  his  vast  thoughts  upon  the  con- 
templation of  a  blade  of  grass ! 

Be  not  too  quick  to  accuse  him  of  childish  weakness 
and  folly.  The  famous  Quaker  John  Bertram,  after  spend- 
ing long  hours  in  examining  the  structure  of  a  violet,  de- 
termined to  devote  his  entire  mental  faculties  to  the  study 
of  the  vegetable  wonders  of  nature,  and  soon  assumed  a 
high  place  among  the  masters  of  science.  If  a  philoso- 
pher in  Malabar  went  mad  in  trying  to  explain  the  phe- 
nomena of  the  sensitive  plant,  Count  Charney,  on  the 
contrary,  may  find  true  wisdom  in  his  plant.  Has  he  not 
already  discovered  the  secret  remedy  to  charm  away  his 
cares  and  to  open  wide  his  prison  doors  ? 


PICCIOLA.  39 

"Oh!  the  flower!  the  flower!"  he  exclaimed;  "that 
flower,  whose  beauty  shall  be  for  my  eye  alone,  whose 
perfumes  will  be  mine  alone,  —  what  shape  will  it  assume  ? 
What  will  be  the  color  of  its  petals  ?  No  doubt  it  will 
afford  me  new  problems  to  solve,  and  fling  a  final  chal- 
lenge to  my  reason  !  Well,  let  it  come  !  let  my  frail  foe 
appear  armed  from  head  to  foot ;  I  will  not  renounce  the 
struggle  yet.  Perhaps  then  only  shall  I  be  able  to  grasp 
the  secret  of  which  its  incomplete  formation  has  thus 
far  permitted  me  to  catch  but  a  glimpse.  But  will  you 
bloom  ?  Will  you  appear  before  me  some  day  in  all  the 
splendor  of  your  beauty  and  festal  array,  Picciola  ?"  1 

Picciola !  that  was  the  name  which  he  gave  it  when, 
with  a  craving  to  hear  the  sound  of  a  human  voice  in  his 
ear  amidst  his  tasks,  he  conversed  aloud  with  the  com- 
panion of  his  captivity  as  he  surrounded  it  with  his  cares. 
" Povera  Picciola!"  Such  was  Ludovic's  exclamation 
when  he  sympathized  with  the  "poor  little  thing"  who 
had  come  near  dying  of  thirst.  Charney  remembered  it. 

"Picciola  !  Picciola  !  will  you  blossom  soon  ? "  he  repeated, 
cautiously  parting  the  leaves  at  the  tips  of  the  branches, 
to  see  if  there  were  any  signs  of  a  flower ;  and  that  name 
of  Picciola  was  sweet  to  his  ear,  for  it  reminded  him  alike 
of  the  two  beings  who  peopled  his  world — his  plant  and 
his  gaoler. 

One  morning,  at  the  hour  of  his  daily  walk,  as  he  ques- 
tioned Picciola,  leaf  by  leaf,  his  eyes  suddenly  rested  on 
one  part  of  the  plant  and  his  heart  beat  violently.  He 
put  his  hand  to  it  and  the  blood  rushed  to  his  head.  It 
was  long  since  he  had  felt  so  lively  an  emotion.  He  saw 

1  Little  one. 


40  PICCIOLA. 

at  the  tip  of  the  main  stalk  an  unwonted  growth  of  green- 
ish hue,  silky,  spherical,  covered  with  tiny  scales,  one  above 
the  other,  like  the  slates  on  the  rounded  dome  of  some 
elegant  kiosk. 

There  was  no  room  for  doubt ;  that  was  a  bud.     The 
flower  was  not  far  off. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

THE  "flycatcher"  came  often  to  his  window  and  took 
pleasure  in  watching  the  Count,  so  busily  employed  about 
his  plant.  He  saw  him  mix  his  mortar,  weave  his  mats, 
and  construct  his  trellis  work,  and  like  him  a  captive,  and 
a  captive  for  a  longer  time  than  he,  he  readily  entered  in 
thought  into  the  philosopher's  anxieties. 

At  that  same  grated  window  another  face,  fresh  and 
smiling,  now  appeared.  It  was  that  of  a  woman  —  a  young 
girl  whose  bearing  is  at  once  alert  and  timid.  In  the 
carriage  of  her  head,  in  the  flash  of  her  eyes,  modesty 
alone  seems  to  temper  vivacity. 

Is  she  one  of  those  angels  of  charity  who  visit  prisons  ? 
No ;  filial  love  alone  has  thus  far  filled  her  heart.  The 
daughter  of  Girhardi,  the  Italian,  the  "flycatcher,"  she  has 
left  Turin,  its  gaieties,  its  lovely  walks,  and  the  shores 
of  the  Doria-Riparia,  to  take  up  her  abode  in  the  little 
town  of  Fenestrella,  not  at  first  allowed  to  see  her  father, 
but  to  breathe  the  same  air  with  him,  to  think  of  him,  to 
be  near  him.  Now,  by  dint  of  entreaties  and  prayers,  she 
has  obtained  permission  to  visit  him  occasionally,  and  that 
is  why  she  is  so  happy,  so  fresh,  and  so  fair ! 

Curiosity  leads  her  to  the  grated  window  which  looks 
out  on  the  little  court ;  a  feeling  of  interest  holds  her 
there  in  spite  of  herself,  for  she  fears  lest  the  prisoner 
should  see  her.  She  need  not  fear ;  Charney  will  not  see 
her  ;  just  now  Picciola  and  her  opening  bud  wholly  engross 
him. 

41 


42  PICCIOLA. 

A  week  later,  when  the  young  girl  again  visited  her 
father,  she  turned  furtively  to  the  tiny  window  to  glance 
at  the  other  prisoner ;  Girhardi  holds  her  back. 

"For  three  days  he  has  not  visited  his  plant,"  he  says. 
"The  poor  man  must  indeed  be  ill." 

"  111 !  "  she  says  with  a  look  of  surprise. 

"  I  saw  the  doctors  cross  the  yard,  and  according  to 
what  Ludovic  tells  me,  they  are  only  agreed  on  one  point ; 
that  is,  that  he  will  very  likely  die." 

"  Die  ! "  repeated  the  young  girl,  and  her  eyes  filled 
with  tears,  and  her  face  assumed  a  look  of  terror  rather 
than  of  compassion.  "  Oh  !  how  I  pity  him  !  poor  fellow  !  " 
Then,  gazing  at  her  father  with  agony  and  alarm:  "Do 
people  die  here,  then  ?  Or  rather,  how  can  they  live  ? 
No  doubt  the  confinement  in  this  prison  and  exhala- 
tions from  the  old  moats  caused  his  illness ! "  she 
cried,  pressing  the  old  man  in  her  arms ;  for  while  she 
spoke  of  Charney  she  thought  only  of  her  father. 

Girhardi  tried  to  console  her  and  clasped  her  hand. 
She  covered  his  own  with  tears. 

At  this  moment  Ludovic  came  in  with  a  fresh  victim 
which  he  had  just  caught  for  the  "  flycatcher."  It  was  a 
fine  beetle  (Scarabeus  auratus),  which  he  held  out  with 
a  look  of  triumph. 

Girhardi  smiled,  thanked  him,  and  slyly  set  the  insect 
free,  for  it  was  the  twentieth  of  the  same  species  which 
Ludovic  had  brought  him  in  a  few  days. 

He  then  inquired  for  Charney. 

"Permiosanto padrone!  "J  said  Ludovic,  "  I  don't  neglect 
him  any  more  than  I  do  the  rest;  and  so  long  as  he  is  not 
1  By  my  patron  saint. 


PICCIOLA.  43 

in  God's  keeping,1  he  will  be  in  mine,  Signor.  I  have  just 
watered  his  plant." 

"  But  why,  if  he  can  never  see  it  bloom  ?  "  asked  the 
young  girl  sadly. 

"PerchZ,  Damigella?"  ^  said  Ludovic.  Then  he  added, 
with  a  knowing  air  and  his  usual  wink  :  "  The  doctors 
think  that  the  poor  fellow  is  laid  on  his  back  forever ; 
but  I,  the  gaoler,  non  lo  credo  ! 3  Odd  zounds  !  I  have 
my  secret." 

He  turned  on  his  heel  and  left  the  room  with  an  effort 
to  resume  his  rough  voice  and  stern  look,  in  order  to  warn 
the  girl  that  by  his  watch  she  had  but  twenty-two  moments 
more  to  spend  with  her  father.  At  the  end  of  that  time 
he  returned  and  saw  that  his  orders  were  obeyed. 

Charney's  illness  was  but  too  real.  Be  the  cause  what 
it  might,  one  night,  after  paying  his  usual  visit  and  cus- 
tomary attentions  to  Picciola,  a  strange  feeling  of  lassitude 
overcame  him.  With  heavy  head  and  trembling  limbs  he 
went  to  bed,  scorning  to  call  for  help  and  trusting  that 
sleep  would  cure  him. 

Not  sleep  but  pain  visited  him ;  and  next  day,  when 
he  tried  to  rise,  a  power  stronger  than  his  will  held  him 
fast  to  his  couch.  He  closed  his  eyes  and  submitted. 

In  the  hour  of  danger  the  philosopher  recovered  his 
composure,  the  conspirator  his  pride.  He  would  have  felt 
it  a  disgrace  to  utter  a  sigh  or  a  groan,  or  to  implore  the 
help  of  those  who  had  parted  him  from  the  world.  He 
merely  gave  Ludovic  a  few  directions  in  regard  to  his 
plant,  in  case  he  was  confined  to  his  bed  for  any  length 
of  time,  in  that  durance  vile  now  added  to  his  other  cap- 
1  Dead.  2  Why,  Miss  ?  3  I  think  not. 


44  PICCIOLA. 

tivity.  The  doctors  came  and  he  refused  to  answer  their 
questions.  He  felt  that  his  life  being  no  longer  his  own, 
he  was  not  responsible  for  its  preservation,  any  more  than 
he  was  for  the  management  of  his  confiscated  estates,  and 
that  those  who  had  taken  possession  of  him  and  of  all  his 
worldly  goods  must  care  for  him  now. 

The  doctors  paid  no  heed  to  his  obstinate  silence  at 
first  and  insisted.  Discouraged  at  last  by  his  persistency, 
they  resolved  to  question  the  disease  itself. 

Each  of  them  read  the  symptoms  in  his  own  way,  for 
each  of  them  belonged  to  a  different  school.  One  saw 
sure  signs  of  a  putrid  fever,  another  those  of  inflammation 
of  the  bowels  ;  the  third  opined  that  it  was  apoplexy  or 
paralysis,  and  declared  that  the  patient's  silence  was  due 
to  inflammation  of  the  brain. 

The  commander  of  the  fortress  paid  two  visits  to  the 
sick-room.  The  first  time  he  came,  he  asked  if  the  patient 
had  any  wish  which  he  could  gratify ;  he  even  offered  to 
change  his  quarters,  if  there  were  reason  to  think  that  the 
cell  was  damp  or  unwholesome.  The  count  merely  shook 
his  head. 

The  second  time  he  came,  the  commander  brought  a 
priest.  Charney  being  given  up  by  the  doctors,  it  was 
his  duty  to  prepare  the  prisoner  to  receive  the  consolations 
of  religion.  The  priest,  summoned  to  the  sick  man's  side, 
understood,  not  only  by  the  patient's  silence  and  immo- 
bility, but  better  yet  by  the  inscriptions  on  the  wall,  how 
little  response  he  could  hope  for  from  that  proud  spirit. 

He  was  content  to  pass  the  night  in  prayer  by  the  bed- 
side, interrupting  his  pious  office  to  share  with  Ludovic 
the  cares  which  the  latter  lavished  on  the  patient. 


PICC10LA.  45 

During  the  night,  the  turning  point  of  the  disease, 
Charney  became  delirious,  and  priest  and  gaoler  were 
forced  to  unite  their  efforts  to  prevent  their  patient  from 
springing  out  of  bed.  And  while  he  struggled  in  their 
arms,  amid  incoherent  words  and  wild  ravings,  he  ever  and 
anon  repeated  the  words  "Picciola  !  povera  Picciola  !  " 

"Andiamo,  andiamo!1  The  time  has  come/'  muttered 
Ludovic.  "  Yes,  it  is  high  time/'  ...  he  repeated  impa- 
tiently; "  but  how  can  I  leave  the  chaplain  here  alone  to 
wrestle  with  this  madman  ?  And  yet  in  an  hour  it  may 
be  too  late !  Ah,  holy  Virgin !  I  think  he  is  growing 
calmer;  ...  he  shuts  his  eyes,  he  stretches  his  arms  as 
if  to  sleep !  If  when  I  return  he  is  still  alive,  hurrah ! 
huzza  !  hurrah  !  "  . 

In  fact,  the  sick  man's  delirium  had  ceased ;  Ludovic 
begged  the  priest  to  watch  him  and  hurried  from  the 
room. 

In  that  room,  dimly  lit  by  a  flickering  lamp,  there  was 
no  sound  save  the  irregular  breathing  of  the  sick  man,  the 
monotonous  prayer  of  the  priest,  and  the  Alpine  wind 
which  muttered  between  the  bars.  Twice  the  sound  of  a 
human  voice  broke  in.  It  was  the  challenge  of  the  sentinel 
as  Ludovic  passed  and  repassed  the  sentry  on  his  way  to 
his  own  house,  and  again  on  his  return. 

Scarce  half  an  hour  later  he  reappeared,  bearing  a  bowl 
filled  with  some  steaming  liquid. 

"My  Lord!  I  came  near  killing  my  dog,"  said  he. 
"  He  began  to  howl ;  that 's  a  bad  sign.2  But  how  is  he  ? 
Has  he  been  out  of  his  head  again  ?  Anyhow,  here  's 

1  Come,  come. 

2  It  is  an  old  superstition  that  if  a  dog  howls  the  sick  person  will  die. 


46  PICCIOLA. 

something  that  will  quiet  him.  I  have  just  tasted  it.  It 's 
as  bitter  as  five  hundred  thousand  devils !  .  .  .  Excuse 
me,  mio padre  !  l  just  taste  it  yourself  and  see." 

The  priest  waved  away  the  bowl. 

"  Well,  you  are  right,  it  is  not  for  us ;  a  pint  of  Muscatel 
with  plenty  of  slices  of  lemon  would  keep  us  up  better 
this  cold  night ;  is  n't  that  so,  Signor  Cappellano  ?  2  But 
this  is  for  him,  only  for  him.  .  .  .  He  must  drink  it;  ... 
he  must  drink  it  all  !  Those  are  the  orders." 

As  he  spoke  he  poured  part  of  the  liquid  into  a  cup, 
shook  it  and  blew  on  it  to  cool  it ;  and  when  he  thought 
it  just  right,  he  administered  it  to  Charney,  almost  by 
force,  while  the  priest  held  the  sick  man's  head.  Then, 
covering  his  patient  carefully,  he  said : 

"  We  shall  see  the  effect ;  it  can't  be  long.  I  sha'n't 
budge  from  here  until  the  thing  is  settled.  All  my  birds 
are  caged ;  they  will  not  fly  away,  and  my  wife  must  do 
without  me  for  once." 

Seeing  that  nothing  happened,  he  repeated  his  dose,  but 
became  somewhat  alarmed  when  he  saw  no  change  in  the 
state  of  the  patient.  He  feared  lest  his  imprudence  might 
have  hastened  the  end.  He  strode  to  and  fro,  stamping 
his  foot,  snapping  his  fingers,  and  shaking  his  fist  at  the 
bowl  containing  the  rest  of  the  liquid. 

Suddenly  he  halted  to  gaze  at  Charney 's  pale  and  rigid 
features. 

"  I  have  killed  him  ! "  he  cried  with  a  dreadful  oath  made 
up  of  French,  Italian,  and  Provencal. 

The  chaplain  looked  up  quickly;  Ludovic  paid  no  heed 
to  him  but  resumed  his  march,  stamping,  swearing,  and 

1  Father.  2  Chaplain. 


P ICC  TOLA.  47 

snapping  his  fingers  harder  than  ever ;  then  at  last,  worn 
out  with  emotion,  he  knelt  by  the  priest,  and,  muttering 
a  mea  culpa,1  he  fell  asleep  in  the  midst  of  a  prayer. 

When  day  dawned  he  still  slept;  the  priest  was  still 
praying.  A  hot  hand  was  placed  on  Ludovic's  head  and 
he  woke  with  a  start. 

"A  drink  !  "  said  the  sick  man. 

At  the  sound  of  that  voice,  which  he  had  never  expected 
to  hear  again,  Ludovic  opened  his  eyes  wide  and  gazed  in 
wonder  at  Charney,  whose  face  was  bathed  in  perspiration. 
Whether  the  disease  had  taken  a  turn,  whether,  nature 
helping,  the  prisoner's  vigorous  temperament  had  conquered 
the  evil,  or  whether  the  double  dose  administered  by  Lud- 
ovic was  possessed  of  great  sudorific  power,  this  violent 
perspiration  seemed  to  have  restored  the  patient  at  once 
to  life  and  reason.  He  himself  directed  what  should  be 
done  for  his  comfort.  Then,  turning  to  the  priest :  "  I  am 
not  dead  yet,  you  see.  If  I  get  over  this,  and  I  hope  I 
shall,  I  beg  you  will  tell  my  trio  of  doctors  that  it  is  not 
to  them  that  I  am  indebted,  and  that  I  want  no  more  of 
their  visits  or  their  science,  false  and  foolish  like  all  the 
rest.  I  understood  enough  of  their  talk  to  feel  sure  that 
my  recovery  is  due  to  a  lucky  chance  alone." 

"  Chance ! "  murmured  the  chaplain,  his  eyes  fixed  on 
this  sentence  on  the  wall :  "  Chance  is  blind,  and  it  alone 
is  the  father  of  creation." 

Then,  solemnly  pronouncing  the  final  word  which 
Charney  himself  had  added:  "Perhaps!"  he  left  the 
room. 

1  Act  of  contrition,  literally  "  my  fault." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

ABSORBED  in  the  pleasure  of  his  success,  Ludovic  seemed 
lost  in  delight  on  hearing  the  Count's  words ;  not  that  he 
paid  any  heed  to  what  he  said  ;  far  from  it !  But  that  his 
dying  man  should  speak,  look,  live,  sweat!  It  was  this 
that  so  charmed  and  enraptured  him.  After  a  pause  of 
admiring  silence,  he  cried : 

"Vivat!  vivat!  che  meraviglia!1  He  is  saved!  Thanks 
to  whom  ? " 

And  he  waved  his  empty  bowl  in  the  air,  kissing  it 
and  lavishing  upon  it  all  the  tenderest  phrases  of  his 
vocabulary. 

"Thanks  to  whom  ?  "  repeated  the  prisoner.  "Thanks 
to  your  kind  care,  perhaps,  my  good  Ludovic.  But  if  I 
really  get  well,  the  doctors  will  credit  it  to  their  prescrip- 
tions all  the  same,  and  the  chaplain  to  his  prayers." 

"The  glory  is  not  due  to  them  nor  to  me,"  replied 
Ludovic,  waving  more  frantically  than  ever.  ...  "As 
for  the  Signor  Cappellano,  ...  I  don't  know ;  ...  he  can't 
have  done  anything  but  good  ;  .  .  .  but  it 's  some  one  else ! 
It 's  some  one  else  !  " 

"Why  !  who  is  this  savior,  this  unknown  protector  ?  Let 
us  hear  who  he  is,"  said  Charney  somewhat  indifferently, 
for  he  fancied  that  Ludovic  attributed  his  cure  to  the 
intervention  of  some  saint. 

"It  was  no  he,"  said  the  gaoler,  "but  a  she." 

"What !  you  don't  mean  to  say  ?    The  Madonna,  was  it  ?" 

1  Hurrah,  hurrah  !     What  a  miracle  ! 

48 


PICCIOLA.  49 

w  No,  it  was  no  madonna  at  all,  Signer  Conte.  She 
who  rescued  you  from  death  and  from  the  devil's  clutches 
too  no  doubt,  for  you  were  dying  without  confessing  your 
sins,  was  first  and  foremost,  above  and  before  all, '  la  Sig- 
nora  Picciola,  Signorina  la  Picciolina  !  Piccioletta  / '  *  .  .  . 
my  goddaughter.  .  .  .  Yes,  my  goddaughter ;  for  it  was 
I  who  first  gave  her  that  name,  .  .  .  the  name  of  Picci- 
ola!  Didn't  you  say  so?  So  she  is  my  goddaughter. 
...  I  am  her  godfather,  .  .  .  and  I  am  proud  of  her, 
ferBacco!"* 

"Picciola!"  cried  the  Count,  starting  up  in  bed  and 
leaning  on  his  pillow,  his  face  expressing  the  utmost  inter- 
est. "Explain,  my  good  Ludovic,  explain  !  " 

"Oh,  yes,  pretend  to  be  astonished,  do!"  replied  the 
latter  with  his  usual  wink.  "  Is  this  the  first  time  she 
has  done  you  the  same  service?  When  you  have  these 
attacks,  isn't  it  always  that  herb  that  cures  you?  You 
told  me  so,  at  any  rate,  and  I  remembered  it,  thank  God ; 
for  it  seems  that  Picciola  knows  more  in  one  of  her  leaves 
than  all  the  bigwigs  of  Montpellier  and  Paris  put  together. 
Yes,  my  little  goddaughter  in  this  case  would  have  put  a 
whole  regiment  of  doctors  to  rout,  even  were  it  a  regiment 
of  four  battalions,  four  hundred  men  to  a  battalion  !  Let 
me  tell  you,  to  prove  it,  that  those  three  donkeys  gave  up 
the  case  and  beat  a  retreat ;  they  pulled  the  sheet  up  over 
your  head  and  said  you  were  a  dead  man  ;  while  Picciola ! 
...  Oh  !  the  brave  little  plant !  May  Heaven  preserve 
her  seed  !  .  .  .  As  for  me,  I  sha'n't  forget  the  prescrip- 
tion ;  and  if  ever  my  little  Antonio  falls  ill,  I  shall  make 

1  The  lady  Picciola,  little  Miss  Picciola,  sweet  little  Picciola. 

2  By  Jove  ! 


50  PICCIOLA. 

him  drink  it  in  tea  and  eat  it  in  salad,  though  it 's  as  bitter 
as  aloes.  She  had  only  to  show  her  face  and  the  victory 
was  complete  !  For  you  are  cured  ;  yes,  really  cured ;  for 
your  eyes  are  opened  wide,  you  laugh  !  .  .  .  Ah  !  hurrah 
for  the  illustrissima  Signora  Picciola!" 

Charney  enjoyed  the  loud,  loquacious  delight  of  his  good 
keeper ;  his  return  to  life,  the  idea  that  he  owed  it  to  that 
same  plant  which  had  already  charmed  away  his  weary 
hours  of  captivity,  inspired  him  with  a  genuine  sense  of 
pleasure,  and  a  smile  broke  on  his  fevered  lips,  when  sud- 
denly a  painful,  cruel  thought  flashed  across  his  mind. 

"But,"  he  asked,  "how  did  this  plant  cure  me?  How 
did  you  use  it?  " 

And  he  trembled  with  dread  as  he  asked  the  question. 

"Nothing  could  be  simpler,"  calmly  replied  the  gaoler; 
"  a  pint  of  water  and  a  good  fire ;  let  it  boil  up  three  times  ; 
...  a  perfect  herb  tea;  how  else  could  I  use  it? " 

"Merciful  heavens!"  cried  Charney,  sinking  back  on 
his  pillow,  "  you  have  killed  her !  Ah !  I  cannot  blame 
you,  Ludovic;  and  yet,  ...  my  poor  Picciola !  What 
shall  I  do?  what  will  become  of  me  without  her? " 

"Come,  come,  don't  get  excited,"  said  Ludovic,  ap- 
proaching him  and  assuming  a  most  paternal  tone  to 
comfort  the  captive,  who  had  given  way  to  his  grief  like  a 
child  robbed  of  his  favorite  toy.  "  Don't  get  excited,  and 
don't  throw  off  your  blankets.  Listen  to  me,"  he  added, 
tucking  in  the  blankets  and  smoothing  the  bedclothes. 
"  Should  I  have  scrupled  to  sacrifice  an  herb  to  save  a 
man?  No,  of  course  not.  Well,  and  yet  I  could  not 
make  up  my  mind  to  kill  her  at  once  and  to  thrust  her  into 
the  boiling  water  whole.  Besides,  there  was  no  need  of 


PICCIOLA.  51 

it.  I  only  took  a  loan  from  her.  With  my  wife's  scissors 
I  clipped  off  a  lot  of  leaves  which  she  did  not  need  at  all, 
a  few  little  twigs  without  any  buds,  .  .  .  for  she  has  three 
buds  now  !  What  do  you  say  to  that,  eh  ?  Is  n't  that  nice 
of  her  !  .  .  .  The  operation  was  quickly  done ;  she  did 
not  die  of  it.  On  the  contrary,  cap  de  Dious!  l  She  's  all 
the  better  for  it !  And  so  are  you  too  !  You  see  that  you 
must  be  good ;  ...  be  good,  perspire  well,  make  haste 
and  get  well,  and  you  shall  see  her  again !  " 

Charney  gave  him  a  grateful  look  and  held  out  his 
hand. 

This  time  Ludovic  did  not  refuse  to  take  it ;  he  pressed 
it  affectionately,  and  his  eyes  were  moist ;  but  suddenly, 
no  doubt  blaming  himself  for  varying  from  the  strict  lines 
which  he  had  laid  down  for  his  conduct,  his  face  length- 
ened, his  voice  grew  gruff;  still  clasping  the  prisoner's 
hand,  but  trying  to  deceive  him  as  to  the  cause  of  his  first 
impulse,  he  said : 

"There,  you  see  you  are  throwing  off  your  blankets 
again !  "  and  he  gently  replaced  the  sick  man's  arm  under 
the  coverings ;  then  with  more  warnings  to  be  prudent, 
uttered  in  an  official  tone,  he  left  the  room  humming 

gravely : 

I  am  a  gaoler, 
That 's  my  line  : 
Better  keep  the  key, 
Than  a  prisoner  be. 

1  Provei^al  oath. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

THAT  day  and  the  next,  a  great  weakness,  the  natural  re- 
sult of  the  severe  crisis  through  which  he  had  passed,  made 
Charney  almost  incapable  of  motion  or  thought ;  but  on  the 
third  day  a  perceptible  improvement  set  in,  and  although 
still  confined  to  his  bed,  he  hoped  soon  to  be  able  to  resume 
his  usual  walks  and  to  see  his  companion  and  preserver. 

For  all  his  thoughts  were  of  her.  He  cannot  understand 
how  that  frail  growth,  found  beneath  his  feet  in  his  prison 
yard,  should  have  healed  his  griefs,  which  the  splendors  of 
wealth  and  luxury  could  not  divert ;  should  dispute  him 
with  death,  to  whom  human  knowledge  had  yielded  him. 

He  clung  to  Picciola  with  a  feeling  of  superstition.  His 
gratitude  to  that  inert,  insensible  being  was  founded  on 
nothing  rational  or  premeditated ;  but  he  felt  a  yearning 
to  give  his  love  in  exchange  for  the  benefits  which  he  had 
received.  Where  reason  ends,  fancy  begins.  His  imagi- 
nation took  fire,  and  his  affection  for  Picciola  soon  became 
worship. 

He  persuaded  himself  that  there  was  some  supernatural 
link  between  them ;  that  there  were  secret  attractions  in 
matter ;  inexplicable  sympathies  which  draw  men  to  plants. 
He  who  still  refused  to  acknowledge  God  seemed  about 
to  accept  the  childish  beliefs  of  fetichism  1  and  judicial  as- 
trology.2 Picciola  was  his  star,  his  Madonna,  his  talisman  ! 

1  Idol  worship,  especially  as  practised  by  the  natives  of  Western  Africa. 

2  As   opposed  to   natural  astrology  or  astronomy,  a  science  by  which 
future  events  were  said  to  be  read  by  the  planets  and  other  celestial  bodies. 

52 


PICCIOLA.  53 

His  imagination  still  excited  by  fever  perhaps,  he  saw 
nothing  in  nature  but  Picciola.  He  searches  his  scientific 
memory  to  find  similar  instances,  reviving  the  story  of 
marvellous  plants,  from  Homer's  moly1  to  Latona's2 
palm  and  Odin's  ash,3  or  the  thorn  which  blooms  in 
midwinter.4  He  recalled  the  Roman  fig  tree  Rumina,6 
the  Celtic  Teutates,6  adored  under  the  guise  of  an 
oak;  the  vervain7  of  the  Gauls,  the  Greek  lotus,8  the 
beans  of  the  Pythagoreans,9  Bahman,  the  mallow  of  the 
fire  worshippers,10  the  mandragora11  of  Hebrew  priests, 
the  miraculous  effects  of  the  Solomon's  seal  and  the 

1  A  plant  to  which  Homer  ascribes  miraculous  properties. 

2  Mother  of  Apollo. 

8  Odin  occupies  the  same  place  in  Norse  mythology  as  Jupiter  in  the 
Greek.  The  ash  tree,  Yggdrasil,  the  tree  of  the  universe,  has  roots  which 
run  in  three  directions  —  to  heaven,  to  the  home  of  the  Norse  Giants,  and  to 
the  under  world.  Under  each  root  is  a  fountain  of  rare  virtue.  In  the  tree, 
which  drops  honey,  sit  an  eagle,  a  squirrel,  and  four  stags.  At  the  root  lies 
the  serpent  Withliggo,  gnawing  it.  The  squirrel,  Kataloshe,  runs  up  the 
tree  to  sow  strife  between  the  eagle  at  the  top  and  the  serpent  at  the  root. 

4  Glastonbury  thorn.     When  Joseph  of  Arimathea  reached  the  end  of 
his  travels,  where  Glastonbury  Abbey  now  stands,  near  Wells,  England, 
he  planted  his  staff  in  the  earth,  and  it  still  blossoms  in  midwinter. 

5  Tree  under  which  Romulus  and  Remus  were  reared.     Rumina  is  also 
the  name  of  the  Roman  goddess  who  protected  infants. 

6  God  to  whom  the  Celts  offered  human  sacrifices. 

7  The  holy  herb,  so  known  for  its  use  in  ancient  rites  and  ceremonies, 
bound  by  the  heralds  around  their  heads  when  they  declared  war. 

8  Whose  fruit  was  so  sweet  that  those  who  ate  it  forgot  all  else. 

9  Followers  of  Pythagoras,  a  Greek  philosopher,  born  about  608  B.C., 
who  taught  the  doctrine  of  the  transmigration  of  souls  through  various  orders 
of  animal  existence.     Beans  being  used  in  the  ballot  box,  his  followers  were 
forbidden  to  eat  beans,  />.,  to  meddle  with  politics. 

10  Followers  of  Zoroaster,  a  Persian  philosopher,  date  of  birth  uncertain. 

11  Mandrake,  whose  root  is  forked  like  a  human  being.     Supposed  to 
shriek  when  uprooted.     Used  in  spells  and  incantations. 


54  PICCIOLA. 

hazel  rod.1  He  remembered  the  blue  champak2  of  the 
Persians,  which  grows  only  in  Paradise  ;  the  Sipakhora, 
whose  fruit,  Ctesias3  says,  gives  two  hundred  years  of 
life;  the  Torba4  tree,  which  shades  the  celestial  abode  of 
Mahomet  with  its  branches;  the  Katso  tree,  yet  more 
divine,  which  overhangs  the  head  of  God  himself,  and 
whose  every  flower  is  endowed  with  a  soul.  He  thought 
of  the  Buddha  tree,  every  leaf  of  which  is  inscribed  with 
one  of  the  many  letters  of  the  Thibetan  alphabet,  a  vege- 
table poem  varied  and  extended  from  season  to  season,  an 
unending  song  in  praise  of  the  Hindu  Christ.  He  attached 
symbolic  meaning  to  the  Japanese  custom  of  rearing  stat- 
ues of  the  gods  upon  pedestals  of  heliotrope  and  water- 
lilies.  He  admired  the  religious  scruples  of  the  Siamese, 
which  forbid  them  to  destroy  certain  plants  or  even  to 
break  a  single  leaf.  He  heard  Charlemagne,6  the  law- 
giver and  philosopher,  from  his  western  throne  recommend 
to  his  people  the  wise  culture  of  plants  ;  nay,  he  understands 
the  love  which  Xerxes,6  according  to  Claudius  Aelianus  7 
and  Herodotus,8  bore  for  a  plane  tree,  caressing  it,  sleep- 
ing in  its  shade,  adorning  it  with  ornaments  of  pure  gold, 
and  weeping  when  compelled  to  leave  it. 

That  which  once  excited  his  mockery  and  scorn  and 

1  Supposed  to  bend  when  held  over  a  spot  where  water  or  treasure  may 
be  found. 

2  A  flower  odious  to  bees,  worn  by  Hindu  women  in  their  hair,  sacred 
to  the  Hindu  god  of  love. 

8  A  Greek  doctor  of  medicine,  about  416  B.C. 

4  Stands  in  Paradise,  in  the  palace  of  Mahomet. 

5  Proclaimed  Emperor  of  the  West,  A.D.  800. 

6  King  of  Persia,  485-472  B.C. 

7  Roman  writer  of  third  century. 

8  Greek  historian,  called  the  "  Father  of  History,"  born  484  B.C. 


PICCIOLA.  55 

lowered  weak  humanity  now  raises  it  in  his  eyes;  for 
he  knows  what  valuable  lessons  may  be  learned  from  a 
leaf  or  a  stalk  ;  and  in  the  customs  of  idolatry  he  now  sees 
but  the  sense  of  gratitude  which  called  them  forth.  Did 
not  a  slender  reed  suffice  to  procure  man  his  first  arrow, 
his  first  pen,  his  first  instrument  of  music  —  the  three 
great  means  of  conquest? 

In  this  frame  of  mind,  well  on  the  road  to  health,  ab- 
sorbed in  thought,  Charney  was  one  morning  in  his  room, 
which  he  had  not  left  since  his  illness,  when  the  door  was 
thrown  open  and  Ludovic  entered  with  beaming  face. 

"  She  is  in  bloom  ! "  he  cried. 

"What!  .  .   .    Picciola?" 

ff  Yes,  '  Picciola ,  Piccioletta,  figliaccia  mia!'  "  * 

"  In  bloom  !  "  repeated  Charney,  his  eye  kindling,  his 
cheek  reddening  ;  "  in  bloom  !  "  and  rushing  to  the  stairs  : 
"Oh!  I  must  see  her!" 

In  vain  the  good  gaoler  remonstrated,  urging  that  it 
would  be  imprudent  to  go  out  so  soon,  that  he  must  wait 
a  day  or  two  longer,  that  it  was  too  early  in  the  morning, 
the  air  was  chill,  that  a  relapse  rarely  forgives  ;  all  was  in 
vain.  All  he  could  do  was  to  persuade  the  prisoner  to 
wait  an  hour  longer,  until  the  sun  could  join  the  party. 

How  slowly  that  hour  passed  !  And  yet  he  did  his  best 
to  fill  it  up.  In  the  first  place,  for  the  first  time  since  he 
was  made  a  prisoner,  he  thought  of  his  appearance ;  yes, 
of  his  appearance,  his  dress,  in  honor  of  Picciola,  of  Pic- 
ciola in  bloom  !  His  clothes  were  wrinkled,  his  hair  un- 
combed, his  beard  long  ;  he  made  himself  tidy.  A  mirror 
hitherto  neglected  and  forgotten  in  his  precious  dressing 

1  My  little  goddaughter. 


56  PICCIOLA. 

case,  was  brought  out ;  he  shaved  himself  carefully,  he 
shaved  himself  to  visit  his  flower ! 

This  is  the  invalid's  first  outing,  the  visit  of  the  sick 
man  to  his  doctor,  the  grateful  man  to  his  benefactress, 
the  lover  to  his  lady ! 

And  when  he  is  ready,  his  eyes  on  the  glass,  he  is 
amazed  to  find,  in  spite  of  his  recent  illness,  that  his  eyes 
are  less  dull,  his  features  less  heavy,  his  forehead  less 
wrinkled  than  of  old.  He  remembers  that  he  is  still 
young,  and  understands  that  though  there  be  bitter  and 
poisonous  thoughts  which  blight  even  the  outer  man,  there 
are  also  others  gifted  with  the  power  to  rejuvenate. 

At  the  exact  moment  Ludovic  appears.  He  helps  the 
Count  down  the  long,  winding  stairs  ;  and  when  the  latter 
reaches  the  little  courtyard,  whether  it  be  the  pure  air  or 
the  open  sky,  or  the  privilege  of  the  sharpened  faculties 
of  one  recovering  from  illness,  it  seemed  to  him  that  the 
perfume  of  his  flower  embalmed  everything  about  him  ; 
and  to  the  flower  he  attributes  the  sweet  sensations  of 
well-being  which  he  experiences. 

Of  what  use  to  the  flowers  are  their  sweet  odors  ?  Do 
they  themselves  enjoy  them  ? 

No. 

Are  they  meant  for  the  pleasure  of  animals  ? 

Did  you  ever  see  a  sheep  or  a  dog  pause  before  a  rose 
to  inhale  its  perfume  ? 

Then  it  is  for  man  alone  that  the  rich  treasures  are 
meant.  Wherefore  ? 

That  they  may  be  loved,  perhaps. 

Charney  was  not  so  far  wrong,  after  all,  when  he  be- 
lieved in  the  mysterious  force  attracting  man  to  plants. 


PICCIOLA.  57 

Picciola  stood  before  him  in  all  the  splendor  of  her 
beauty  ;  she  displayed  to  his  eyes  her  many-hued  and 
brilliant  corolla ;  white,  purple,  and  pink  were  mingled  in 
the  broad  petals  fringed  with  tiny,  silvery  rays,  upon  which 
the  sun  shone  until  they  twinkled  like  a  luminous  halo. 
Charney  gazed  at  it  rapturously ;  he  feared  lest  he  should 
dim  its  lustre  by  a  breath  or  wither  it  by  a  touch.  He  no 
longer  dreamed  of  analysis  and  study ;  he  admired  it,  he 
enjoyed  it  with  sight  and  smell.  But  soon  another  thought 
diverted  him  and  his  eyes  strayed  from  the  flower.  He 
sees  the  marks  of  mutilation  all  along  the  stem,  drooping 
branches,  leaves  torn  by  the  scissors.  The  scars  are  not 
yet  healed.  He  feels  that  he  owes  his  life  to  the  plant ; 
his  heart  swells  with  a  feeling  stronger  and  sweeter  than 
mere  admiration,  and  Picciola's  good  deeds  lead  him  to 
forget  her  beauty  and  her  perfume. 


CHAPTER    X. 

BY  order  of  the  doctors  the  invalid  was  allowed  for 
some  days  to  walk  in  his  courtyard  whenever  and  as  long 
as  he  chose.  He  was  thus  enabled  to  resume  his  studies 
with  fresh  ardor. 

Desiring  to  note  down  the  observations  made  in  regard 
to  his  plant  from  its  first  day  until  the  present  time,  he 
tried  to  bribe  Ludovic  to  procure  ink,  pens,  and  paper 
for  him.  He  expected  to  see  him  frown,  look  important, 
require  much  urging,  and  yield  at  last,  either  from  the 
interest  he  felt  in  his  patient  and  his  goddaughter,  or 
from  a  spirit  of  gain ;  for  here  was  an  opportunity  to 
drive  a  trade. 

Not  so.     Ludovic  at  first  took  the  suggestion  cheerfully. 

"To  be  sure,  Signor  Conte,  nothing  could  be  easier!" 
said  he,  filling  his  pipe  and  turning  aside  to  take  a  few 
whiffs  to  keep  it  alight ;  for  he  never  smoked  before 
Charney,  who  objected  to  the  smell  of  tobacco.  "I've 
no  objection.  But  all  those  little  articles  are  kept  under 
lock  and  key  by  the  governor,  not  by  me.  If  you  want 
writing  materials,  send  in  a  petition  piu  presto^  and  per- 
haps you  may  get  them." 

Charney  smiled  but  was  not  discouraged. 

"  But  to  write  that  petition,  my  dear  Ludovic,  I  should 
first  require  just  what  I  ask  for  —  ink,  pens,  and  paper." 

"  To  be  sure,  Signor  Conte,  to  be  sure.  I  put  the  cart 
before  the  horse,  you  see,"  replied  the  gaoler.  "This  is 

1  At  once. 

58 


PICCrOLA.  59 

the  way  the  petition  dodge  is  generally  worked,"  he  added 
with  a  knowing  air,  his  head  thrown  back  and  his  arms 
crossed  behind  him.  "  I  go  to  the  governor  and  I  tell 
him  that  you  have  a  favor  to  ask,  without  saying  what  it 
may  be.  ...  That 's  not  my  affair;  it 's  his  affair  and 
your  affair.  If  he  can't  come  to  see  you  himself,  he  sends 
you  one  of  his  men.  This  man  hands  you  a  pen,  a  sheet 
of  official  paper,  just  one  sheet ;  he  holds  the  inkstand ; 
you  write  on  it  in  his  presence ;  he  seals  the  paper  before 
you  ;  you  return  him  the  pen,  he  carries  off  the  letter,  and 
that 's  the  end  of  it." 

"  But,  Ludovic,  I  prefer  to  owe  this  favor  to  you  and 
not  to  the  governor." 

"  To  me,  mordious!1  Then  you  don't  know  my  orders  ? " 
said  the  gaoler,  instantly  assuming  his  gruff,  stern  expres- 
sion. 

He  took  a  long  pull  at  his  pipe,  blew  out  the  smoke 
slowly,  as  if  to  hold  the  Count  at  a  distance,  turned  on 
his  heel  and  left.  And  next  day  when  Charney  returned 
to  the  charge,  he  merely  winked  and  shook  his  head. 

Too  proud  to  humble  himself  before  the  governor,  but 
too  eager  to  carry  out  his  plans  to  give  them  up  so  easily, 
the  prisoner  made  a  pen  of  a  quill  toothpick;  he  made 
shift  to  use  his  razor  as  a  knife ;  soot  steeped  in  water 
and  a  gilt  bottle  in  his  dressing  case  did  for  inkstand  and 
ink ;  and  fine  white  cambric  handkerchiefs,  a  relic  of  his 
former  splendor,  served  in  the  place  of  paper. 

In  this  way  Charney,  even  when  parted  from  Picciola, 
could  still  devote  himself  to  her  and  write  out  the  result 
of  his  observations. 

1  Proven9al  oath. 


60  PICCIOLA. 

How  surprising,  how  delightful  they  were  !  How  happy 
he  would  have  been  could  he  have  imparted  them  to  an 
attentive  ear  ! 

His  neighbor,  the  "  flycatcher,'*  seemed  to  him  worthy 
of  his  confidences ;  the  face,  which  once  struck  him  as  so 
sullen,  so  severe,  now  seemed  to  beam  with  good-nature 
and  to  shine  with  intelligence.  When  from  his  little 
window  the  old  man  cast  his  half-dreamy,  half-curious 
glance  upon  him  and  upon  Picciola,  Charney  felt  attracted 
by  the  glance.  A  gesture,  a  smile  had  indeed  passed  be- 
tween them,  but  the  rules  of  the  prison  forbade  them  to 
speak,  even  to  ask  for  each  other's  health ;  and  the  great 
student  of  the  marvels  of  nature  was  forced  to  keep  his 
precious  discoveries  to  himself. 

Among  these  may  be  mentioned  the  strange  power 
which  he  found  his  flower  possessed  of  turning  towards  the 
sun  and  facing  it  throughout  its  course,  the  better  to  absorb 
its  rays  ;  when  they  hid  behind  the  clouds  and  rain  threat- 
ened, the  flower  at  once  sought  shelter  beneath  her  folded 
petals,  as  a  ship  takes  in  sail  before  a  storm. 

"Is  heat  so  needful  to  it?"  thought  Charney;  "and 
why?  .  .  .  Why  should  it  fear  a  slight  shower  which 
would  refresh  it  ?  Oh !  I  trust  her  now  ;  she  will 
explain." 

Picciola  had  already  served  him  as  a  friendly  physician ; 
she  might  at  a  pinch  act  as  compass  and  barometer ;  she 
was  also  t'o  take  the  place  of  a  clock  to  him. 

By  dint  of  inhaling  her  perfume  he  fancied  he  noticed 
that  it  varied  at  different  periods  of  the  day.  This  phe- 
nomenon at  first  seemed  to  him  an  illusion  of  his  senses ; 
but  repeated  experiments  proved  it  a  reality,  and  he  found 


PICCIOLA.  61 

that  he  could  tell  with  perfect  precision  the  hour  of  the 
day  by  the  scent  of  his  plant.1 

The  flowers  had  multiplied,  and,  especially  towards 
evening,  Picciola's  fragrance  was  at  its  height.  Then 
how  the  happy  captive  loved  to  approach  her!  With  a 
few  boards,  due  to  Ludovic's  generosity,  he  had  built  a 
little  bench  resting  on  four  strong  sticks  sharpened  at 
the  end  and  driven  in  between  the  stones.  A  rough  back 
board  afforded  him  support  when  he  chose  to  meditate 
and  forget  himself,  living  in  the  atmosphere  of  his  plant. 
There  he  felt  more  at  his  ease  than  he  had  ever  been  on 
his  rich,  silken  couches  ;  he  sometimes  spent  hours  there, 
recalling  the  days  of  his  youth,  which  had  passed  without 
pleasure  and  without  affection,  wasted  in  the  pursuit  of 
empty  dreams. 

Amid  these  retrospects  he  often  fell  into  deep  reveries, 
half  waking,  half  sleeping,  when  his  over-excited  fancy 
filled  the  courtyard  with  delicious  dreams. 

Once  more  he  took  part  in  those  feasts  where  care  had 
ever  pursued  him.  He  saw  his  old  home  in  the  Rue  de 
Verneuil  brilliantly  lighted.  The  noise  of  carriage  wheels 
rang  in  his  ear ;  by  the  light  of  torches  they  entered  the 
wide  court,  and  from  the  carriages  stepped  forth  in  turn 
fashionable  beauties  wrapped  in  fur ;  dandies  with  nar- 
row-crowned felt  hats,  big  cravats,  and  ribbon  garters ; 
famous  artists,  with  short  hair  and  bare  neck,  in  half 
Greek,  half  French  costume  ;  generals  with  tri-colored 
sash  ; 2  scientists  and  men  of  letters,  with  or  without  green 

1  The  English  botanist  Smith  found  the  same  properties  in  the  Antir- 
rhinum ripens  (British  Flora,  vol.  iv,  p.  658). 

2  The  French  colors,  red,  white,  and  blue. 


62  PICCIOLA. 

collars.1  A  throng  of  lackeys  showed  them  the  way, 
their  fresh  liveries  mocking  at  the  old  ones  of  the  Con- 
ventional Assembly,2  now  gone  out  of  fashion. 

In  his  drawing-rooms  he  again  encountered  all  the 
freaks  of  the  period.  Toga  and  chlamys  3  rubbed  against 
frock  coat  and  cloak;  sandals  with  rosettes,  laced  and 
spurred  boots  trod  the  inlaid  floor  side  by  side  with  caliga 
and  cothurnus.4  Lawyers,  writers,  soldiers,  bankers,  min- 
isters, contractors,  artists,  and  politicians  mingled  in  this 
hubbub  of  the  Directory.  An  actor  talked  with  a  mem- 
ber of  the  clergy ;  a  former  nobleman  with  one  who  had 
been  poor ;  Aristocracy  and  Democracy  clasped  hands ; 
Learning  and  Wealth  went  arm  in  arm. 

Charney  gazed  with  a  smile  at  this  medley  of  morals, 
conditions,  and  costumes.  What  was  once  a  bitter  and 
prolific  source  of  contemptuous  thoughts  concerning  all 
mankind  now  roused  in  him  only  a  slight  amusement  at 
his  own  folly  and  futile  efforts. 

Elegant  women  passed  before  him  and  greeted  him  with 
a  smile.  He  recognized  them.  They  were  the  wonted 
guests  and  the  ornament  of  his  brilliant  parties  when, 
rich  and  free,  he  was  greeted  as  one  of  the  fortunate  of 
the  earth. 

1  The  badge  of  the  Institute  of  France. 

2  Period  previous  to  the  Directory,  when  France  was  governed  by  the 
stern  will  of  the  National  Convention  (1792-1795). 

8  Toga,  robe  of  Roman  patrician.  Chlamys,  mantle  fastened  on  the 
right  shoulder  by  a  clasp,  worn  by  Greeks  and  Romans.  Under  the  First 
Republic  the  French  affected  the  dress  and  manners  of  the  ancient  Greek 
and  Roman  Republics. 

4  Caliga,  a  buskin  studded  with  nails,  worn  by  old  Roman  soldiers.  Co- 
thurnus, boot  with  high  heels  and  thick  sole,  worn  by  ancient  actors  to 
make  them  appear  taller  on  the  stage. 


PICCIOLA.  63 

There  shone  unrivalled  the  haughty  Tallien,1  in  Greek 
dress,  costly  jewels  and  rings  even  on  her  bare  feet,  scarce 
covered  by  light  gilded  sandals  ;  the  charming  Recamier,2 
who  in  Athens  would  have  been  made  a  divinity ;  and  the 
sweet,  plaintive  Josephine,3  ex-Countess  de  Beauharnais, 
who  by  dint  of  grace  often  passed  for  the  most  beautiful 
of  the  three. 

There  were  others  still  who  were  noticeable  even  beside 
these,  dazzling  in  their  beauty,  their  coquetry,  and  their 
dress. 

How  young  and  fair  they  seem  to  Charney  now  !  How 
far  more  sweet  and  potent  than  of  old !  How  happy  he 
would  be,  might  he  choose  among  so  many  charmers ! 

He  tries  to  do  so ;  and  after  turning  from  one  to  an- 
other, suddenly  in  the  midst  he  sees  one,  not  with  bare 
shoulders  or  decked  in  diamonds.  .  .  . 

Simple  in  her  dress  and  bearing,  she  timidly  hangs  her 
head  and  dreads  to  be  seen.  Yet  she  too  is  beautiful ! 
She  is  young  and  dressed  in  white,  with  only  her  simple 
grace  and  the  blush  that  colors  her  cheek  to  set  off  her 
charms.  Charney  never  saw  her  before,  and  yet  as  he 
gazes  at  her,  the  others  seem  to  fade  and  disappear ;  a 
sweet  emotion  fills  his  soul,  he  scarce  knows  why. 

But  how  his  emotion  grows  when  he  sees  in  her  dark 
hair  a  flower,  its  only  ornament !  That  flower  ...  is 
from  his  plant !  It  is  the  flower  of  his  prison ! 

He  stretches  his  arms  towards  the  young  girl ;  .  .  .  sud- 
denly his  eyes  grow  dim,  everything  swims  before  him ; 

1  Wife  of  pro-Consul  Tallien. 

2  Wife  of  a  rich  Parisian  banker,  famed  for  her  wit  and  beauty. 
8  Wife  of  Napoleon  I  and  later  divorced  by  him. 


64  PICCIOLA. 

the  music  dies  away ;  the  maiden  and  the  flower  seem  to 
melt  into  one  another ;  clumsy  paving  stones  replace  the 
shining  inlaid  floor.  Calm  reason  has  returned ;  memory 
destroys  the  illusion,  reality  the  dream. 

The  prisoner  opens  his  eyes.  He  is  on  his  bench ;  his 
flower  is  before  him  and  the  sun  is  setting. 

The  first  few  times  that  he  became  a  prey  to  this  hallu- 
cination Charney  marvelled  at  it.  These  sweet  dreams 
invariably  came  to  him  when  he  was  seated  on  his  bench 
beside  his  plant.  After  some  consideration  he  thought 
he  understood  the  phenomenon.  Does  not  science  teach 
that  the  gaseous  emanations  exhaled  by  plants  sometimes 
produce  slight  and  agreeable  unconsciousness  ?  He  now 
sees  how  far  the  relations  between  himself  and  his  plant 
may  reach,  and  the  almost  magic  influence  which  it  exerts 
over  him. 

It  is  Picciola  who  gives  him  the  brilliant  balls  at  which 
he  assists. 

But  who  is  that  modest,  candid  young  girl,  whose 
unlooked-for  presence  so  moves  and  delights  him  ?  Did 
he  ever  see  her  ?  Like  those  other  women,  is  she  but  a 
memory  of  his  past  life  ?  He  cannot  recall  her.  How 
if  she  be  a  revelation  of  the  future  ?  But  has  he  a  future, 
and  dare  he  believe  in  revelations  ?  No  !  the  white-robed 
maiden  with  the  modest  blush,  who  eclipses  and  pales  her 
brilliant  rivals,  is  Picciola  herself  —  Picciola  personified 
and  poetized  in  a  dream  ! 

Nay  then ;  it  is  she  whom  he  shall  love  !  He  will  not 
forget  her  graceful  form  and  the  ingenuous  look  which 
she  wore.  Her  sweet  image  shall  henceforth  beguile  his 
weary  hours  ;  for  that  fair  girl,  a  smiling  phantom  sum- 


PICCIOLA.  65 

moned  to  interrupt  his  solitude,  his  prison  doors  must 
needs  fly  open ;  she  will  visit  him,  walk  with  him,  talk 
with  him,  sit  beside  him,  smile  on  him,  love  him  !  She 
shall  live  by  his  life,  his  breath,  his  love ;  and  he  will  talk 
to  her  in  fancy  and  see  her  with  closed  eyes  ! 

Thus  the  prisoner  of  Fenestrella  followed  up  his  beloved 
studies  with  the  no  less  bewildering  charm  of  illusions,  and 
advanced  farther  and  farther  into  that  sphere  of  poetry 
which  one  leaves,  as  the  bee  does  the  heart  of  the  flowers, 
perfumed  and  laden  with  honey.  Side  by  side  with  his 
positive  life  he  had  his  life  of  imagination,  the  comple- 
ment of  the  other,  without  which  man  but  half  enjoys  the 
benefits  of  the  Creator. 

His  time  was  now  divided  between  Picciola  the  plant 
and  Picciola  the  young  girl.  When  weary  of  reasoning 
and  study  he  had  pleasure  and  love. 


CHAPTER    XL 

CONTINUING  his  study  of  the  flower,  Charney  was  daily 
lost  in  greater  wonder  at  the  ordinary  marvels  of  nature. 
But  his  eyes  were  not  able  to  pierce  the  delicate  mysteries 
beyond  the  power  of  ordinary  vision.  He  became  impa- 
tient at  his  lack  of  power,  when  Ludovic  gave  him,  in  the 
name  of  his  neighbor,  the  Italian  conspirator,  a  powerful 
microscope,  with  which  he  himself  had  numbered  eight 
thousand  ocular  facies  on  the  cornea l  of  a  fly.  Charney 
trembled  with  joy. 

Thanks  to  this  instrument  the  least  perceptible  parts 
of  the  plant  were  suddenly  brought  into  bold  relief,  in- 
creased a  hundred-fold.  He  now  advanced,  or  thought 
he  advanced,  rapidly  on  the  road  to  discoveries. 

Unknown  to  him,  during  these  hours  of  rapturous  study, 
Charney  had  often  two  attentive  spectators  who  followed 
his  every  movement  and  sympathetically  shared  his  every 
emotion  —  Girhardi  and  his  daughter. 

The  latter,  trained  by  a  deeply  religious  father,  living  a 
solitary  and  contemplative  life,  had  one  of  those  natures 
made  up  of  all  holy  enthusiasms.  With  her  beauty,  her 
virtues,  the  graces  of  her  mind  and  person,  she  had  not 
lacked  admirers  ;  gifted  with  deep  and  broad  sensibilities, 
she  seemed  made  for  tender  affections  ;  but  if  she  had  felt 
any  slight  preferences  amidst  the  gaieties  of  Turin,  her 
father's  imprisonment  had  swallowed  them  all  in  one  great 
sorrow. 

1  Outer  transparent  part  of  the  eyeball. 
66 


PICCIOLA.  67 

But  since  she  has  seen  Charney  she  feels  interest  and 
compassion  for  him.  He  is  a  captive  like  her  father, 
and  with  her  father !  He  has  nothing  to  love  but  a 
plant,  and  how  dearly  he  loves  it ! 

No  doubt  the  prisoner's  face,  his  noble  brow,  his  grace- 
ful figure  had  their  share  in  arousing  the  young  girl's  pity  ; 
but  if  she  had  known  him  in  the  days  of  his  wealth,  when 
a  false  show  of  happiness  surrounded  him,  she  would  not 
have  distinguished  him  from  others.  What  charmed  her 
in  him  was  his  loneliness,  his  misfortune,  his  submission. 
She  instinctively  bestowed  on  him  her  friendship,  her  es- 
teem ;  for,  in  her  ignorance,  she  ranks  misfortune  among 
the  virtues. 

As  ready  to  do  a  good  deed  as  she  was  slow  to  meet 
the  gaze  of  a  stranger,  perhaps  too  unconscious  of  dan- 
ger, she  encourages  her  father  in  his  kindly  feeling  for 
Charney. 

At  last  Girhardi,  standing  at  his  window,  not  content 
to  greet  the  Count  with  a  gesture  as  usual,  beckoned  him 
to  come  as  close  as  possible,  and  lowering  his  voice,  as  if 
afraid  of  being  overheard,  he  enters  upon  the  following 
conversation  : 

"Perhaps  I  have  some  good  news  fpr  you,  sir." 

"  And  I,  sir,  have  to  thank  you  for  the  microscope  you 
were  kind  enough  to  lend  me." 

"  It  was  not  my  idea  ;  it  was  my  daughter  who  suggested 
it  to  me." 

ff  You  have  a  daughter,  sir,  and  you  are  allowed  to  see 
her?" 

"Yes,  I  am  a  father,  and  I  thank  Heaven  for  it  daily. 
My  poor  child  took  a  great  interest  in  you,  my  dear  sir, 


68  PICCIOLA. 

when  you  were  ill,  and  since  then  too,  seeing  you  lavish 
such  care  on  your  flower.  Have  you  never  seen  her 
through  these  bars?" 

"Why,  yes;  ...    I  think  I  have." 

"  But  in  talking  of  my  daughter  I  forgot  to  give  you 
the  piece  of  news.  The  Emperor  is  going  to  Milan,  where 
he  is  to  be  consecrated  as  King  of  Italy." 

"  King  of  Italy  !  Then,  sir,  he  will  be  more  than  ever 
your  master  and  mine.  As  for  the  microscope,"  added 
Charney,  who  paid  but  little  heed  to  the  great  piece  of 
news,  and  did  not  dream  that  there  was  more  to  it,  "I 
have  robbed  you  of  it  for  a  very  long  time.  .  .  .  Forgive 
me,  I  may  need  it  for  my  next  experiments ;  but  I  will 
return  it  to  you  .  .  .  soon." 

"  I  can  do  without  it,  I  have  others,"  kindly  replied  the 
"  flycatcher,"  guessing  from  the  tone  of  his  voice  how  much 
it  cost  his  neighbor  to  part  with  the  microscope ;  "  keep 
it,  sir,  keep  it  in  memory  of  a  fellow-prisoner  who  feels, 
believe  me,  the  utmost  interest  in  your  welfare." 

Charney  strove  to  express  his  gratitude  to  the  generous 
man  ;  the  latter  cut  him  short : 

"But  let  me  finish  what  I  have  to  tell  you." 

And,  speaking  still  lower  : 

w  I  hear  that  a  number  of  pardons  will  be  granted  on 
the  occasion  of  the  new  Emperor's  second  coronation. 
Have  you  friends  in  Turin  or  Milan  ?  Can  you  get  them 
to  move  in  the  matter  ?  " 

Charney  sadly  shook  his  head. 

"I  have  no  friends,"  he  said. 

"  No  friends ! "  repeated  the  old  man  with  a  look  of 
compassion ;  "  have  you  lost  faith  in  men  ?  Friendship 


PICCIOLA.  69 

never  fails  those  who  believe  in  her.  Well !  I  have 
friends,  friends  whom  even  adversity  has  not  shaken ; 
perhaps  they  can  do  for  you  what  they  have  not  yet  been 
able  to  do  for  me/' 

"I  will  ask  no  favors  of  General  Bonaparte,"  replied 
the  Count  in  a  proud,  curt  tone  which  plainly  revealed 
his  ancient  hostilities. 

"  Hush  !  Speak  lower.  ...  I  thought  I  heard  some 
one.  .  .  .  No,  I  was  mistaken  — 

There  was  a  slight  pause ;  then  the  Italian  went  on  in 
a  tone  of  paternal  reproach  : 

"  Dear  friend,  you  are  still  bitter ;  I  thought  your  studies 
of  the  past  few  months  had  killed  those  hatreds  which 
are  odious  to  God  and  which  warp  a  man's  life.  So  the 
kindly  virtues  of  your  flower  have  not  wholly  healed  the 
wounds  inflicted  by  society  ?  I  have  possibly  more  reason 
than  you  to  complain  of  this  Bonaparte  whom  you  hate, 
for  my  son  died  in  his  service." 

w  So  you  strove  to  avenge  your  son  !  "  Charney  hastily 
broke  in. 

"  I  see  that  those  false  reports  have  reached  your  ears," 
said  the  old  man,  raising  his  eyes  to  heaven,  as  if  to  appeal 
to  the  witness  of  God.  "  I,  revenge  myself  by  a  crime ! 
no ;  but  in  my  first  grief  I  could  not  control  my  feelings, 
it  is  true ;  and  while  the  people  of  Turin  hailed  the  victor 
with  shouts  of  joy,  my  cries  of  despair  mingled  with  the 
cheers  of  the  mob.  I  was  arrested ;  I  had  a  knife  about 
me.  Wretches,  to  curry  favor  with  the  master,1  readily 
persuaded  him  that  I  had  attempted  his  life.  I  was  treated 
as  an  assassin,  and  I  was  only  an  unhappy  father  who  had 

1  Napoleon. 


70  PICCIOLA. 

just  heard  of  his  son's  death.  Well !  I  can  understand 
that  he  was  deceived  ;  I  even  understand  that  Bonaparte 
is  not  a  cruel  man ;  for  he  did  not  put  either  you  or  me 
to  death.  If  he  sets  me  free,  it  will  merely  be  in  repa- 
ration of  a  mistake;  but  I  shall  bless  him  all  the  same; 
not  that  I  cannot  endure  my  captivity !  Full  of  faith  in 
Providence,  I  submit  to  anything  and  everything.  But 
my  imprisonment  distresses  my  daughter;  it  is  for  my 
daughter's  sake  that  I  would  be  free,  to  put  an  end  to  her 
exile  from  society,  that  she  may  again  enjoy  the  pleasures 
suited  to  her  age.  Have  you  no  one,  too,  in  whom  you 
feel  an  interest,  no  woman  who  weeps  for  you,  for  whom 
you  would  rejoice  to  sacrifice  the  pride  which  your  sense 
of  oppression  inspires  ?  Come,  permit  my  friends  to 
speak  for  you  !  " 

Charney  smiled.  "  No  woman  weeps  for  me,"  he  said  ; 
w  no  one  sighs  for  my  return.  What  should  I  do  in  the 
world,  where  I  was  not  so  happy  as  I  am  here  ?  But  were 
I  to  find  friends,  fortune,  and  happiness  there,  I  should 
still  say  no  !  a  thousand  times  no !  if  to  regain  them  I 
must  bow  before  the  power  which  I  strove  to  destroy." 

"  What !  you  forbid  yourself  to  hope  ?  " 

"  I  will  never  salute  as  Emperor  a  man  who  was  my  equal." 

"  Beware  lest  you  sacrifice  your  future  to  a  feeling 
of  vanity  rather  than  patriotism;  .  .  .  but  .  .  .  hush!" 
again  said  old  Girhardi.  "  I  am  not  mistaken  now ;  some 
one  is  coming  !  Good-bye  !  " 

And  he  left  the  grated  window. 

"Thank  you,  thank  you  for  the  microscope!"  cried 
Charney  before  he  had  quite  disappeared. 

At  this  moment  Ludovic  opened  the  door  of  the  yard. 


PICCIOLA.  71 

He  brought  the  prisoner's  daily  supply  of  provisions.  He 
saw  that  Charney  was  moody  and  thoughtful,  and,  unwill- 
ing to  disturb  him,  he  merely  rattled  the  plates  in  his 
hand,  as  he  passed,  in  token  that  dinner  was  ready.  Putting 
the  dishes  in  the  prisoner's  cell,  he  withdrew  with  a  silent 
bow  to  the  "gentleman  and  his  lady,"  as  he  sometimes 
said ;  that  is,  to  the  man  and  his  plant. 

"  The  microscope  is  mine  !  "  thought  Charney.  fr  What 
have  I  done  to  deserve  such  kindness  from  a  stranger  ?  " 
And  as  he  saw  Ludovic  cross  the  yard  :  "  He  too  has  won 
my  esteem  ;  under  his  tough  skin  beats  a  noble  heart,  I 
am  sure.  Then  there  are  good  and  feeling  souls ;  but 
where  have  they  sought  refuge?" 

An  inward  voice  seemed  to  answer :  "  It  is  because  mis- 
fortune has  taught  you  to  understand  a  benefit,  that  men 
appear  less  worthy  of  your  scorn.  What  have  those  two 
men  actually  done  ?  One  watered  your  plant  without 
your  knowledge,  the  other  gave  you  the  means  to  analyze 
it,  to  become  better  acquainted  with  it." 

"Oh  ! "  thought  Charney,  "  the  heart  does  not  err;  theirs 
was  true  generosity." 

"Yes!"  resumed  the  voice;  "but  it  was  because  that 
generosity  was  shown  to  you  that  you  do  them  justice. 
Had  Picciola  never  been  born,  of  these  two  men  one 
might  still  be  in  your  eyes  an  imbecile  old  man  given 
over  to  degrading  tasks ;  the  other  a  coarse  fellow,  of 
mean  and  sordid  avarice !  In  your  former  world,  Sir 
Count,  did  you  ever  love  any  one  or  anything  ?  No,  your 
heart,  like  your  mind,  was  given  to  solitude.  Here  it  is 
because  you  love  Picciola  that  these  two  men  love  you ; 
it  is  through  her  that  they  were  drawn  to  you." 


72  P7CCIOLA. 

Charney  gazed  alternately  at  his  plant  and  his  precious 
microscope.  Napoleon,  Emperor  of  the  French,  King  of 
Italy !  Those  terrible  words,  one-half  of  which  had  once 
sufficed  to  make  him  a  furious  conspirator,  made  scarcely 
an  impression  on  him  now. 

What  does  he  care  for  the  triumphs  of  the  newly  elect 
of  the  nation,  and  the  liberties  of  Europe  ?  An  insect 
which  buzzes  threateningly  about  his  flower  causes  him 
more  agony  and  anxiety  than  all  the  encroachments  of  the 
new  Empire ! 


CHAPTER   XII. 

HE  has  resumed  his  labors  ;  armed  with  his  microscope, 
now  his  very  own,  he  has  repeated  his  observations,  he 
has  extended  the  field  of  his  discoveries,  and  his  enthusi- 
asm grows  ever  greater.  He  invents  countless  theories 
concerning  the  circulation  of  the  sap,  the  way  in  which  it 
rises,  spreads,  and  becomes  a  part  of  the  living  plant, 
without  suspecting  its  double  current ;  concerning  the 
various  hues  of  his  plant  and  the  source  of  the  different 
savors  of  the  stalk,  the  leaves,  and  the  flowers ;  regarding 
the  gum  and  resins  distilled  by  herbs ;  regarding  the  wax 
and  honey  made  from  them  by  bees.  He  found  an  answer 
for  everything  ;  but  each  day  new  systems  destroyed  those 
of  the  day  before,  and  he  himself  rejoiced  in  his  weakness, 
since  it  obliged  him  to  exert  all  the  powers  of  his  mind 
and  his  imagination,  and  prevented  him  from  seeing  any 
limit  to  his  enchanting  occupations. 

Aided  by  his  microscope  he  devoted  himself  wholly  to 
his  studies ;  he  watched,  he  waited,  until  at  last  his  eyes 
grew  dim;  the  microscope  dropped  from  his  hand;  the 
vanquished  philosopher  sank  upon  his  rustic  seat,  crossed 
his  arms,  and  after  long  meditation  thus  addressed  his 
plant  : 

"Picciola,  I  was  once  free  to  roam  the  earth;  I  had 
many  friends,  I  was  surrounded  by  scientific  men  ;  well ! 
none  of  those  learned  men  ever  taught  me  so  much  as 
you  have ;  not  one  of  my  friends,  or,  rather,  of  those  who 
usurped  that  title,  ever  rendered  me  the  good  offices  that 

73 


74  PICCIOLA. 

you  have  done ;  and  in  this  narrow  space  of  ground  where 
you  lead  a  wretched  existence  between  two  paving  stones, 
pacing  hither  and  yon,  never  taking  my  eye  from  you,  I 
have  thought  more,  felt  more,  observed  more  than  in  all 
my  travels  throughout  Europe  !  How  blind  I  was  !  When 
I  first  saw  you  so  feeble,  wan,  and  drooping,  I  expected 
nothing  of  you,  and  it  was  a  companion  that  you  offered 
me,  a  book  that  you  opened  for  me,  a  world  that  you 
revealed  to  me  ! 

"That  companion  soothed  my  sorrows  and  drove  them 
away;  she  attached  me  to  the  existence  which  she  pre- 
served for  me ;  she  taught  me  to  know  men  and  recon- 
ciled me  to  them !  That  book  made  me  despise  all  other 
books  ;  it  convinced  me  of  my  ignorance  and  humbled 
my  pride;  it  compelled  me  to  admit  that  knowledge, 
like  virtue,  can  only  be  won  through  humility.  It  is 
the  book  of  light !  Written  in  living  characters,  in 
a  tongue  as  yet  mysterious  to  me,  it  offers  me  sublime 
enigmas  to  read,  every  word  of  which  is  a  consolation  ! 
That  world  is  the  world  of  one  and  absolute  truth ;  it  is 
the  intelligent  creation ;  it  is  the  sum  total,  the  criterion 
of  the  eternal  and  celestial  world,  the  revelation  of  that 
immense  law  of  harmony  and  love  which  rules  the  uni- 
verse, which  gravitates  atoms  and  suns,  which  unites  in 
a  single  link  both  the  plant  and  the  planets,  the  insect 
grovelling  on  the  earth,  and  the  man  looking  up  to  heaven 
to  find  ...  its  author,  no  doubt !  " 

Charney,  deeply  moved,  strode  up  and  down ;  thought 
succeeded  thought;  a  struggle  raged  in  his  conscience; 
then  he  turned  to  Picciola,  gazed  at  her  with  emotion, 
glanced  hastily  towards  heaven  and  murmured: 


PICCIOLA.  75 

"All  powerful  God !  invisible  source  whence  proceed 
all  harmony,  all  fertility,  so  much  false  learning  has 
obscured  my  reason,  so  many  sophistries  have  hardened 
my  heart  that  Thou  canst  not  enter  it  so  soon.  I  cannot 
hear  Thee  yet,  but  I  call  Thee ;  I  cannot  see  Thee,  but  I 
seek  Thee ! " 

Returning  to  his  room,  he  read  upon  the  wall : 

"God  is  but  a  word." 

He  added : 

"May  not  that  word  be  the  answer  to  the  great  riddle  of 
the  universe?" 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

THUS  his  days  passed  away.  After  devoting  hours  to 
study  and  analysis,  weary  of  his  labors  and  seeking  to 
divert  his  mind,  he  left  Picciola  the  flower  for  Picciola  the 
young  girl. 

When  his  head  grew  heavy  and  waves  of  perfume  from 
the  blossom  filled  his  senses,  when  his  eyes  shunned  the 
light  of  day,  he  would  say : 

"To-night  Picciola  will  entertain." 

And  he  would  yield  to  that  semi-slumber  peopled  by 
dreams  but  still  somewhat  subject  to  the  light  of  reason. 

Oh  !  is  it  not  one  of  the  most  bewildering  joys  permitted 
to  man  to  guide  his  dreams  whither  he  will,  and  enjoy  as 
he  pleases  that  other  life  where  events  crowd  upon  events, 
where  centuries  cost  us  but  a  single  hour's  existence, 
where  magic  hues  seem  to  cover  all  the  actors  in  the 
drama,  where  emotions  alone  are  real  ? 

Charney  yielded  to  his  illusions.  True  to  Picciola' s 
sweet  image,  it  was  she  whom  he  summoned ;  she  was 
ever  first  to  appear  to  him,  always  with  the  same  features, 
the  same  graces,  young,  modest,  charming,  now  appearing 
among  his  former  companions  of  study  or  of  pleasure, 
now  with  the  only  beings  he  had  truly  loved,  and  who 
were  no  more  —  his  mother,  his  sister.  Having  revived 
his  dead  family,  the  joys  of  his  past,  did  she  point  the 
way  to  another  family,  destined  to  exist  for  Charney  some 
day;  did  she  foretell  for  him  future  joys?  He  could  not 

76 


PICCIOLA.  77 

say;  but  when  he  awoke  he  felt  confidence  in  his  fate 
and  regularly  noted  down  in  his  journal,  on  fine  cambric, 
the  incidents  of  his  dreams ;  they  were  the  only  happy 
events  of  his  life,  to  say  nothing  of  his  captivity. 

And  yet  once  during  one  of  those  feasts  when  he  usu- 
ally found  peace  and  happiness  with  her,  Picciola  filled 
him  with  sudden  alarm.  Later  on  he  recalled  it  only  to 
believe  in  revelations  and  the  foreknowledge  of  the  mind. 

The  perfumes  of  the  plant  showed  that  it  was  six  o'clock 
in  the  evening.  Never  before  had  they  been  so  rich,  so 
powerful,  for  thirty  full-blown  flowers  combined  to  produce 
that  magnetic  atmosphere  which  lulled  Charney's  senses. 

Withdrawing  from  the  crowd,  he  breathed  the  air  upon 
a  green  slope,  where  his  beloved  phantom  had  alone  ac- 
companied him.  Picciola  advanced  towards  him  smiling, 
and  he  gazed  admiringly  at  her  slender  figure,  the  flowing 
folds  of  her  white  dress,  and  her  black  curls,  in  which  was 
the  accustomed  flower.  Suddenly  he  sees  her  hesitate ; 
she  totters,  she  stretches  out  her  arms  to  him ;  the  seal 
of  death  is  on  her  brow.  He  strives  to  rush  towards  her ; 
an  obstacle  which  he  cannot  overcome  holds  him  fast ;  he 
utters  a  shriek  and  wakes.  As  he  wakes  he  hears  another 
cry  in  answer  to  his ;  yes,  a  cry  —  a  woman's  voice. 

And  yet  he  was  in  his  courtyard,  on  his  bench,  beside 
his  plant !  And  now  before  his  wide-open,  bodily  eyes 
another  apparition  of  a  maiden  appears  at  the  little  grated 
window.  At  first  the  graceful,  melancholy  form  seen  in 
the  dim  light  seems  vague  and  uncertain ;  but  it  gradu- 
ally becomes  more  distinct ;  he  springs  up,  hastens  towards 
it,  and  all  at  once  the  sweet  vision  fades,  or,  rather,  the 
young  girl  disappears. 


78  PICCIOLA. 

Rapid  as  was  her  flight,  he  still  plainly  saw  her  features, 
her  figure,  her  white  dress  ;  he  stands  motionless ;  he 
thinks  he  is  still  dreaming,  and  that  the  insuperable 
obstacle  which  parted  him  from  Picciola  was  the  prison 
bars ! 

Ludovic  came  hurrying  up  in  great  amazement,  and 
finding  Charney  still  profoundly  agitated,  he  says  : 

"  Is  your  illness  coming  back,  Signer  Conte  ?  Good 
gracious  !  We  '11  call  in  the  doctors,  for  that  is  the  rule ; 
but  never  fear,  mistress  Picciola  and  I  will  answer  for 
your  cure  in  spite  of  them." 

"I  am  not  ill,"  replied  Charney,  scarcely  recovered  from 
his  emotion.  "  What  made  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  The  'flycatcher's  '  daughter,  to  be  sure  !  She  saw  you, 
she  heard  you  shriek,  and  she  made  haste  to  call  me ;  was 
that  not  what  she  should  have  done,  poor  thing? " 

Charney  then  remembered  that  a  young  girl  sometimes 
visited  that  part  of  the  fortress. 

"The  resemblance  which  I  fancied  between  the  stranger 
and  Picciola  was  only  an  error  of  my  senses,  a  very  com- 
mon optical  illusion,"  thought  he.  "The  eye  often  retains 
the  image  of  the  object  upon  which  it  has  been  resting. 
How  strange  to  see  that  sweet  image  pass  from  the  life 
of  dreams  to  the  life  of  reality !  And  yet  Picciola's  image 
did  not  wholly  live  in  the  young  girl,  nor  did  she  wear  a 
flower  in  her  hair." 

As  he  compared  them  he  recalled  the  interest  which 
the  young  Piedmontese  had  already  shown  in  him,  as  her 
father  had  told  him. 

She  pitied  him  when  he  was  ill;  it  was  to  her  he  owed 
his  precious  microscope ;  she  was  interested  in  his  dear 


PICCIOLA.  79 

studies;  even  now,  by  summoning  Ludovic,  she  had  given 
him  fresh  proof  of  her  kindness ! 

His  heart  swelling  with  gratitude,  he  felt  an  overwhelm- 
ing desire  to  express  it.  But  how? 

Not  without  some  hesitation,  not  without  secret  self- 
reproach,  as  if  he  were  guilty  of  profanation,  he  breaks 
off,  he  silently  plucks  with  a  trembling  hand,  a  small 
flowery  spray  from  his  plant. 

"Once,"  thought  he,  "  I  lavished  diamonds  and  pearls 
upon  false  friends,  who  heeded  not  the  heart  which  I  laid 
at  their  feet !  Ah  !  if  the  offering  is  only  to  be  estimated 
by  the  value  attached  to  it,  I  swear  no  gift  more  precious 
was  ever  offered  by  me  than  this  which  I  now  borrow 
from  you,  Picciola !  "  And  putting  the  little  branch  in  the 
gaoler's  hand  he  said  :  "  My  good  Ludovic,  give  this  from 
me  to  my  old  comrade's  daughter.  Tell  her  that  I  thank 
her  for  the  interest  so  kindly  shown  to  me,  and  that  Count 
Charney,  poor  and  a  prisoner,  has  nothing  worthier  of  her 
acceptance." 

Ludovic  took  the  flower  in  amazement. 

He  so  fully  appreciated  the  prisoner's  love  for  his  plant 
that  he  could  scarcely  understand  why  so  slight  a  service 
should  procure  for  the  "flycatcher's  "  daughter  a  mark  of 
such  lavish  generosity, 

"Never  mind  !  "  said  he,  "per  il  capo  di  San  Pasquale! l 
They  have  only  seen  my  goddaughter  from  a  distance; 
now  they  can  judge  from  this  specimen  how  lovely  she  is, 
and  how  sweet  she  smells  !  " 

*  By  the  head  of  my  patron  saint. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

As  for  Charney,  he  will  soon  have  to  make  many  simi- 
lar sacrifices,  for  the  time  has  come  for  Picciola  to  go  to 
seed.  Some  of  her  flowers  have  already  lost  their  brilliant 
petals  ;  the  stamens,  now  useless,  have  dropped  ;  the  seed 
vessels  begin  to  swell. 

Charney  prepares  for  fresh  experiments;  he  must 
wound  Picciola  once  more ;  but  she  will  readily  repair 
her  losses.  At  every  joint,  at  the  union  of  the  leaves 
with  the  stem,  new  sprouts  are  shooting  forth  in  token 
of  future  bloom ;  and,  besides,  Charney  will  handle  her 
tenderly. 

To-morrow  he  will  set  to  work. 

Next  day  he  takes  his  seat  on  the  bench  with  the  seri- 
ous look  of  a  man  who  is  about  to  try  a  difficult  experi- 
ment, and  one  which  may  not  succeed.  At  the  first  glance 
he  is  surprised  at  the  languid  state  of  the  plant.  The 
flowers,  drooping  on  their  stems,  seem  too  feeble  to  face 
the  sun ;  the  leaves  hang  their  heads  and  have  lost  their 
glossy  greenness. 

At  first  Charney  thinks  that  a  violent  storm  is  at  hand, 
and  his  first  impulse  is  to  spread  his  mats  to  protect 
Picciola  from  the  rude  assaults  of  wind  or  hail. 

But  the  sky  is  cloudless,  the  air  is  calm,  and  an  invisible 
lark  sings,  lost  in  space. 

His  face  darkens.  Then  after  a  brief  pause  he  says : 
"She  wants  water";  and  he  hastens  to  his  room  for  it, 
kneels  beside  the  plant  and  parts  the  branches  that  the 

80 


PICCIOLA.  81 

water  may  reach  the  roots,  but  is  suddenly  struck  motion- 
less. His  gaze  is  fixed  upon  the  ground ;  the  arm  which 
holds  the  waterpot  remains  suspended,  and  every  sign  of 
surprise  overshadows  his  brow.  He  has  discovered  the 
trouble. 

Picciola  is  dying. 

While  she  redoubled  her  blossoms  and  her  sweet  scents 
for  his  study  and  his  delight,  her  stem  was  also  increasing 
rapidly.  Confined  at  its  root  between  two  paving  stones, 
choked  by  the  double  pressure,  she  at  first  threw  out  a 
large  protruding  ring,  but  the  sharp  edges  of  the  stone 
soon  wore  it  away,  and  the  poor  plant  bled  at  several 
wounds. 

Picciola  needs  more  space ;  her  strength  and  her  life- 
blood  exhausted,  she  will  die  if  no  help  is  at  hand !  She 
will  die !  Charney  sees  it  plainly.  There  is  but  one  way 
to  save  her ;  that  is,  to  take  up  the  stones  which  grind  her 
down ;  but  can  he  do  it  ?  Without  tools  all  his  efforts 
would  be  in  vain. 

He  rushes  to  the  gate ;  he  beats  upon  it  frantically, 
shouting  to  Ludovic,  who  comes  at  last. 

The  story,  the  sight  of  the  disaster  overwhelm  him  ; 
but,  in  spite  of  his  affection  for  his  goddaughter,  he  only 
answers  Charney's  prayers  and  entreaties  that  he  will  take 
up  the  stones  with  a  sigh  and  a  shrug  and  these  words  : 

"And  how  about  my  orders,  Signer  Conte?" 

The  prisoner  offers  him  not  one  article  only  from  his 
precious  dressing  case,  but  the  entire  case  with  all  it  con- 
tains. Ludovic  stands  erect,  folds  his  arms  tight  across 
his  breast,  and  resuming  his  official  manner,  his  half  Pro- 
vengal,  half  Piedmontese  accent,  says  : 


82  PICCIOLA. 

"Per  Bacco!  Mondious!  Not  if  you  offered  me  all 
the  treasures  of  the  earth.  ...  I  am  an  old  soldier  and 
I  have  my  orders.  Apply  to  the  commanding  officer.'* 

"No!"  cries  Charney ;  "rather  break  those  stones 
myself,  uproot  them  from  the  earth,  were  I  to  lose  my 
nails  in  the  task  ! " 

"  We  shall  see  about  that !     But,  as  you  like  ! " 

And  Ludovic,  who  took  care  to  hold  his  thumb  over 
his  pipe  when  he  came  in,  and  to  keep  it  at  a  distance  from 
the  prisoner,  now  abruptly  replacing  it  between  his  teeth, 
and  taking  a  long  whiff  at  it,  prepares  to  go.  Charney 
holds  him  back. 

"  Dear  Ludovic,  you  have  always  been  so  good  to  me, 
can  you  do  nothing  for  me  now,  .  .  .  nothing  for  her? " 

"  Nomdedious !  "  he  replied,  struggling  to  disguise  his 
emotion  by  oaths  ;  "  let  me  alone,  you  and  your  con- 
founded gillyflower  !  Begging  the  'povera's ' 1  pardon  ;  she 
is  not  to  blame  for  your  devilish  obstinacy.  What !  would 
you  really  have  the  heart  to  let  her  die  for  want  of  help? " 

"  But  what  can  I  do  ?  " 

"Apply  to  the  commander,  I  tell  you." 

"Never!" 

"  Come,"  said  Ludovic,  "if  it 's  too  much  for  you,  would 
you  like  to  have  me  speak  to  him? " 

"  I  forbid  you  !  "  cried  Charney. 

"What!  You  forbid,  me!"  exclaimed  the  gaoler. 
" Damnazione !  Am  I  to  take  orders  from  you  ?  How 
if  I  choose  to  apply  to  him  !  Very  well,  so  be  it !  I 
will  not  speak  to  him.  After  all,  you  are  right,  it  is 
none  pf  rny  business.  Let  her  die,  or  let  her  live  !  It,  i§ 

1  Poor  thing. 


PICCIOLA.  83 

nothing  to  me!  Che  tri  importa?1  You  refuse?  Good 
evening ! " 

"  But  would  your  commander  ever  understand  me  ?  " 
said  the  Count,  suddenly  weakening. 

"  Why  not  ?  Do  you  take  him  for  a  kinzerlick  ?  2  Ex- 
plain the  matter  to  him  nicely,  with  pretty  phrases,  .  .  . 
not  too  long  ;  you  are  a  scholar ;  now  's  the  time  to  prove 
it.  Why  should  n't  he  understand  the  feeling  that  leads 
you  to  love  your  weed  ?  I  understood  it  well  enough. 
Besides,  I  shall  be  there,  never  fear !  I  '11  tell  him  how 
good  it  is,  made  into  tea,  for  all  sorts  of  trouble ;  .  .  .  he 's 
not  very  robust,  ...  he  has  the  rheumatism  just  now ;  .  .  . 
it 's  very  lucky;  ...  he  '11  understand  all  the  better." 

Charney  still  hesitated  ;  Ludovic  winked  and  pointed 
to  Picciola  with  her  drooping  head.  The  Count  nodded 
and  Ludovic  went  off. 

A  few  minutes  later  a  man  in  half-military,  half-civic 
dress  brought  the  prisoner  all  the  materials  for  writing, 
including  a  sheet  of  paper  with  official  heading.  As  Ludo- 
vic had  stated,  this  man  remained  while  Charney  wrote 
his  petition ;  he  sealed  it,  bowed,  and  carried  off  the 
writing  materials. 

Perhaps  you  smile  with  scorn  to  see  the  noble  Count's 
pride  so  soon  subdued  and  his  firm  will  yield  at  the 
sight  of  a  faded  flower.  You  forget  what  Picciola  is  to  the 
prisoner.  You  do  not  know  the  influence  which  solitude 
and  imprisonment  exert  on  the  proudest,  most  stubborn 

1  What  is  it  to  me  ? 

2  Corruption  of  the  German  word  Kaiserlich.     At  the  time  of  the  wars 
of  the  First  Republic  and  the  Empire,  the  French  soldiers  called  the  Ger- 
man soldiers,  especially  the  Austrians,  "  Kaiserlichs."    By  using  the  term,, 
Ludovic  means,  "Do  you  think  he  does  not. understand  French.?," 


84  PICCIOLA. 

will.  He  did  not  submit  to  this  proof  of  weakness  with 
which  you  reproach  him,  when  he  himself,  depressed  by 
illness,  gasped  for  free  air,  crushed  between  his  prison 
walls,  like  his  plant  between  the  stones.  No  !  But  mutual 
obligations,  solemn  pledges  have  been  exchanged  between 
them ;  she  saved  him  from  death  ;  he  must  needs  save  her 
in  turn  ! 

Old  Girhardi  saw  Charney  striding  up  and  down,  with 
every  sign  of  expectation  and  impatience.  How  long  the 
answer  seemed  in  coming  !  Three  hours  had  passed  since 
his  message  to  the  governor,  and  meantime  the  plant  was 
perishing  from  the  loss  of  sap.  Charney  would  have  seen 
his  own  blood  flow  with  more  composure,  no  doubt. 

The  old  man  tried  to  comfort  and  encourage  him  ;  more 
familiar  than  he  with  plants  and  their  diseases,  he  told  him 
how  to  close  Picciola's  wounds,  to  rescue  her  from  one  at 
least  of  the  dangers  which  beset  her. 

By  his  advice  Charney  made  a  mixture  of  wet  earth  and 
straw  chopped  fine  and  applied  it  to  the  wounds.  His 
handkerchief,  torn  into  strips,  supplied  him  with  bandages 
to  hold  it  in  place. 

In  these  occupations  another  hour  passed  ;  but  still  no 
answer  came. 

At  dinner  time,  when  Ludovic  appeared,  his  curt  and 
bustling  manner  boded  no  good  news.  He  scarcely 
deigned  to  answer  the  prisoner  with  a  few  short,  sharp 
words.  "  Wait,  diavolo!  You  are  in  a  great  hurry  !  Give 
him  time  to  write  !  " 

He  seemed  to  foresee  the  part  that  he  was  to  play  in 
all  this,  and  to  prepare  for  it  in  advance. 

Charney  ate  no  dinner. 


PICCIOLA.  85 

He  tried  to  wait  patiently  for  Picciola's  sentence  of  life 
or  death,  and  he  tried  to  argue  with  himself  that  the  gov- 
ernor could  not  refuse  so  simple  a  request,  unless  he  was 
a  very  cruel  man. 

But  delay  made  him  more  and  more  impatient ;  he  was 
amazed,  as  if  the  commandant  might  not  have  anything 
more  important  to  do.  At  the  slightest  sound  his  eyes 
turned  to  the  narrow  door,  through  which  he  hoped  to  see 
the  coming  of  an  answer  to  his  message. 

Evening  came ;  nothing !  Night  fell  .  .  .  nothing ! 
He  could  not  close  his  eyes. 


CHAPTER    XV. 

NEXT  day  the  eagerly  awaited  answer  reached  him. 
The  commander  informed  him,  in  a  dry,  laconic  style, 
that  no  change  could  be  made  in  the  walls,  moats,  or  for- 
tifications of  the  citadel,  without  express  permission  from 
the  governor  of  Turin  ;  that  he  would  refer  M.  Charney's 
request  to  His  Excellency;  for,  he  added,  "the  pavement 
of  a  prison  yard  is  also  to  be  regarded  as  a  wall." 

Charney  stood  amazed.  To  make  a  State  question  of 
the  existence  of  a  flower !  A  breach  in  the  fortifications  ! 
Await  the  decision  of  the  Governor  of  Turin !  Wait  a 
century,  when  a  day  might  mean  death  !  Might  not  the 
governor  in  turn  refer  to  the  minister,  the  minister  to  the 
senate,  the  senate  to  the  Emperor  ?  All  his  contempt  for 
mankind  revived  suddenly  !  Ludovic  himself  seemed  only 
the  tool  of  his  tormentor. 

He  approached  the  sufferer,  whose  lustre  was  tarnished, 
whose  colors  were  dimmed.  He  gazed  at  her  sadly.  Her 
fragrance  no  longer  indicates  the  true  time  of  day,  like  a 
watch  when  the  spring  breaks  ;  the  blossoms,  drooping 
and  hanging  their  heads,  have  ceased  to  turn  towards  the 
sun,  as  a  dying  girl  closes  her  eyes  that  she  may  not  see 
the  lover  whom  she  fears  to  regret  too  much. 

Amid  his  despairing  thoughts  he  heard  the  voice  of 
the  old  companion  of  his  captivity : 

"Dear  sir,"  said  the  good  old  man  in  his  fatherly  tones, 
dropping  his  voice  and  bending  his  head  to  the  lowest 
bars  of  his  window  in  order  to  get  as  close  as  possible, 

86 


PICCIOLA.  87 

"  if  it  dies,  and  I  fear  it  will  die,  what  will  you  do  here 
alone,  all  alone  ?  What  tasks  will  divert  you  when  that 
which  had  such  charms  for  you  is  gone  ?  You,  too,  will 
die  of  weariness ;  solitude,  once  interrupted,  becomes  so 
hard  to  bear  !  You  cannot  endure  it ;  you  feel  as  I  should 
if  I  were  parted  from  my  child  !  that  guardian  angel 
whose  smile  consoles  me  for  every  grief  !  As  for  your 
plant,  some  breeze  from  the  Alps,  some  passing  bird,  no 
doubt,  dropped  a  seed  in  the  courtyard ;  but  should  a 
similar  chance  send  you  another  Picciola  it  would  but 
renew  your  regret  for  the  first,  for  you  would  continually 
expect  to  see  it  die  in  the  same  way.  Take  my  advice ; 
let  my  friends  try;  yield  to  fate.  Perhaps  freedom  is 
easier  of  achievement  than  you  think.  ...  I  hear  many 
instances  of  the  new  Emperor's  clemency  and  generosity. 
He  is  even  now  at  Turin,  and  Josephine  is  with  him." 

He  spoke  the  name  "Josephine"  as  if  it  were  a  sure 
omen  of  success. 

"At  Turin?"  interrupted  Charney,  quickly  lifting  his 
head. 

"At  Turin,  for  the  last  two  days,"  repeated  the  old 
man,  delighted  to  see  that  his  good  advice  was  not  now, 
as  heretofore,  unheeded. 

"  And  what  is  the  exact  distance  from  Fenestrella  to 
Turin  ? " 

"By  way  of  Giaveno,  Avigliano,  and  the  highroad,  it 
is  sixteen  miles." 

"  And  how  long  would  it  take  to  go  ?  " 

"At  least  four  or  five  hours;  for  just  now  the  road 
must  be  blocked  by  troops,  coaches  and  carriages  from  all 
the  surrounding  country,  going  to  attend  the  festivities. 


88  PICCIOLA. 

...  The  road  through  the  valleys,  along  the  river,  is 
longer,  to  be  sure ;  but  I  think  it  would  take  less 
time." 

"  Tell  me,  have  you  any  means  of  communicating  with 
some  one  outside  who  will  go  to  Turin  to-day  .  .  .  before 
night?" 

"My  daughter  will  attend  to  it." 

"And  you  say  that  General  Bonaparte  .  .  .  the  .  .  . 
first  Consul  .  .  ." 

"The  Emperor,"  gently  suggested  Girhardi. 

"  Yes,  the  Emperor ;  the  Emperor  is  still  at  Turin,  you 
say  ? "  resumed  Charney,  fairly  carried  away  by  a  great 
resolve.  "  Well.  I  will  write  to  him,  I  will  send  a  petition 
...  to  the  Emperor!  " 

He  dwelt  on  the  word  as  if  to  strengthen  his  purpose. 

"Oh!  thank  God!"  cried  the  old  man;  "for  it  is  He 
who  inspired  that  good  idea  and  humbled  your  pride.  .  .  . 
Yes,  write ;  address  your  petition  for  pardon  to  him ;  my 
friends  Forsombruni,  Coterna,  and  Delarue  will  support 
you  warmly,  as  they  would  support  me,  with  Minister 
Marescalchi,  Cardinal  Caprara,  and  also  with  de  Melzi, 
who  has  just  been  made  keeper  of  the  seals  to  the  new 
kingdom.  Dear  comrade,  perhaps  we  may  leave  this 
prison  together,  on  the  self-same  day  :  you  to  return  to 
active  life,  I  to  follow  my  daughter  whither  she  will." 

"  Pardon,  sir,  pardon,  if  I  do  not  seem  wholly  satisfied 
with  the  powerful  help  which  you  so  kindly  and  unselfishly 
offer  me.  My  gratitude  and  my  esteem  are  yours ;  but 
my  petition  must  be  placed  in  the  hands  of  the  Emperor 
himself  to-night,  to-morrow  morning  at  latest.  Can  you 
promise  me  a  faithful,  trusty  messenger?  " 


PIC  C TOLA.  89 

"Yes,  one  I  can  answer  for  as  for  myself!"  said  the 
old  man  after  a  little  thought. 

"  One  question  more,"  added  Charney,  "  do  you  not  fear 
that  you  may  be  compromised  by  the  great  service  you 
are  to  render  me  ?  " 

"The  pleasure  of  obliging  you  destroys  all  fear,  dear 
sir.  If  I  can  in  any  small  measure  help  to  lessen  your 
misfortunes,  come  what  may,  I  can  bow  to  the  will  of 
Heaven ! " 

Charney  was  moved  to  his  inmost  soul  by  these  simple 
words ;  he  gazed  at  the  old  man  with  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"Would  that  I  might  clasp  your  hand!"  he  said;  and 
he  raised  his  arm  to  the  window.  Girhardi  stretched  his 
arm  through  the  bars ;  but  in  vain  ;  he  could  not  reach 
the  hand  that  was  held  toward  him.  Then,  inspired  by 
one  of  those  affectionate  impulses  so  keen  in  the  soul  of 
a  recluse,  he  suddenly  untied  his  cravat,  held  one  end  of 
it  and  flung  the  other  to  Charney,  who  seized  it  raptur- 
ously, and  a  double  pressure,  a  double  emotion  sent  a 
quiver  of  grateful  friendship  through  the  inert  rag. 

As  he  again  passed  Picciola,  Charney  whispered :  "  I 
will  save  you  yet !  " 

Reentering  his  cell,  he  took  the  finest  and  whitest 
of  his  handkerchiefs,  carefully  mended  his  toothpick, 
renewed  his  ink,  and  set  to  work.  His  petition  written, 
which  was  accomplished  not  without  many  pangs  to  his 
pride,  a  slender  cord  was  let  down  from  the  grated  win- 
dow on  the  other  side  of  the  yard ;  Charney  fastened  his 
petition  to  it  and  the  string  was  drawn  up. 

An  hour  later  the  person  charged  with  the  office  of 
handing  the  paper  to  the  Emperor  set  off  with  a  guide 


90  PICCIOLA. 

through  the  valleys  of  Suza,  Bussolino,  and  St.  George, 
along  the  right  bank  of  the  Doria-Riparia ;  both  were  on 
horseback;  but  in  spite  of  all  their  haste,  unlooked-for 
obstacles  delayed  them.  Recent  rains  had  washed  out 
the  road,  the  river  had  overflowed  in  several  places,  and 
it  was  not  until  far  on  in  the  evening  that  they  reached 
Turin. 

There  they  learned  that  the  Emperor-King  had  left  for 
Alexandria.1 

1 A  fortified  town  in  Northern  Italy. 


BOOK    SECOND. 


CHAPTER    I. 

NEXT  day,  with  the  earliest  dawn,  the  city  of  Alexandria 
was  in  festal  array.  Vast  crowds  thronged  the  streets, 
carpeted  and  dressed  with  flowers  and  flags.  The  crowd 
moved  from  the  town  hall,  where  Napoleon  and  Josephine 
were  lodged,  to  the  triumphal  arch  erected  at  the  end  of 
the  avenue,  which  they  would  traverse  to  visit  the  famous 
field  of  Marengo. 

There  was  to  take  place  the  most  important  feature  of 
the  day.  The  Emperor  Napoleon  would  take  part  in  a 
sham  fight,  in  commemoration  of  the  victory  won  on  that 
very  spot  five  years  before  by  First  Consul  Bonaparte. 

Up  and  down  the  long  street  of  the  village  of  Marengo 
all  the  houses,  turned  into  taverns,  afford  a  lively  scene 
of  bustle  and  confusion. 

At  every  window,  to  attract  and  tempt  purchasers,  hang 
smoked  hams,  sausages,  garlands  of  red  partridges  and 
quails,  strings  of  potato  balls  and  sweetmeats.  French- 
men and  Italians,  soldiers  and  civilians  come  and  go,  push 
and  crowd ;  heaps  of  macaroni,  pyramids  of  almond  cakes, 
Italian  paste  and  tartlets  vanish  before  the  army  of  cus- 
tomers. 

Up  and  down  the  dark,  narrow  staircases  moves  a  double 
line  of  people ;  some,  loaded  with  their  supplies,  to  hide 

.  9* 


92  PICCIOLA. 

them  from  the  greed  of  their  neighbors,  hold  their  arms 
high  above  their  heads,  and,  in  the  darkness,  a  hand  nim- 
bler than  their  own  snatches  a  dainty  morsel,  a  buttered 
roll,  a  handful  of  oranges  or  figs,  a  small  Turin  ham,  or  a 
larded  quail,  or  even  a  pie,  or  a  tureen  of  stewed  meat; 
dish  and  contents,  all  are  taken ;  and  there  are  shouts, 
jokes,  and  endless  laughter  from  the  first  step  to  the  last. 
The  robber  in  the  ascending  line,  content  with  his  gains, 
turns  about  and  tries  to  descend ;  he  who  was  robbed, 
forced  to  return  to  the  source  of  supplies,  tries  to  remount, 
and  the  entire  band,  moved  by  this  ebb  and  flow,  swaying 
hither  and  thither  amidst  outbursts  of  merriment,  oaths, 
and  haphazard  blows,  are  driven  forth,  some  into  the 
streets,  some  to  the  tavern,  where  tipsy  men  are  already 
bawling  and  shouting. 

Between  the  tables  loaded  with  food  and  the  benches 
loaded  with  guests,  from  room  to  room,  move  the  mistress 
and  the  maidservants;  the  former  with  colored  aprons, 
powdered  hair,  and  the  coquettish  little  dagger,  still  the 
chief  ornament  of  the  national  attire ;  the  latter  in  short 
skirts,  with  long  braids  of  hair,  neck,  breast,  and  ears 
loaded  with  imitation  jewels,  and  their  feet  bare. 

Other  scenes,  other  sounds  will  soon  take  the  place  of 
these  lively  pictures,  these  songs  and  shouts,  this  clash  of 
plates  and  glasses. 

In  an  hour  the  cannon  will  roar,  harmless  cannon, 
indeed,  which  will  do  no  more  than  break  a  few  window- 
panes;  the  street  will  ring  with  the  shouts  of  soldiers, 
and  the  houses  will  vanish  in  the  smoke  of  ...  blank 
cartridges. 

A  gorgeous  throne,  surrounded  by  tricolored  flags,  is 


PICCIOLA,  93 

already  prepared  on  one  of  the  hills  overlooking  the  field; 
troops  are  already  falling  into  position.  Trumpets  sound 
the  cavalry  call,  and  the  roll  of  the  drum  is  heard  on  every 
hand  ;  flags  flutter  in  the  breeze,  and  the  sun,  the  favored 
guest  of  Napoleonic  feasts,  shines  forth  and  strikes  fire 
from  the  gold  of  embroideries,  the  bronze  of  cannon,  the 
helmets,  cuirasses,  and  the  sixty  thousand  bayonets  with 
which  the  field  is  bristling. 

Erelong  the  curious  mob  is  driven  back  by  the  troops 
which  pour  in  in  double  quick  time ;  the  village  is  de- 
serted; men  are  hurrying  in  every  direction,  interrupted 
in  their  sports  or  their  feasts;  and  women,  alarmed  by  the 
flash  of  swords  or  the  neighing  of  horses,  drag  their  chil- 
dren out  of  the  way. 

The  chief  incidents  of  the  dreadful  day  of  June  14, 
1800,  are  to  be  rehearsed ;  but  pains  will  be  taken  to  omit 
any  mistakes  that  may  have  been  made,  for  this  is  intended 
as  a  skilful  piece  of  flattery,  a  madrigal  in  cannonades 
for  the  new  Emperor  and  King. 

All  at  once  the  drums  beat  a  salute ;  shouts  and  cheers 
are  heard  on  every  hand ;  swords  flash,  clouds  of  dust 
arise,  guns  clink  as  if  by  a  common  impulse,  and  a  showy 
carriage,  drawn  by  eight  horses  and  decked  with  the  arms 
of  Italy  and  France,  bears  Josephine  and  Napoleon  to  the 
foot  of  their  throne  ! 

The  latter,  after  receiving  the  homage  of  deputations 
from  all  parts  of  Italy,  envoys  from  Lucca,  Genoa,  Flor- 
ence, Rome,  and  even  from  Prussia,  chafing  at  inaction, 
springs  on  his  horse,  and  the  whole  plain  is  soon  lit  up 
with  flames  and  covered  with  smoke. 

Such  were  the  sports  of  the  young  conqueror  ! 


94  PICCIOLA. 

An  officer,  chosen  by  the  Emperor,  explained  the  secret 
of  these  evolutions  and  the  purpose  of  these  movements 
to  Josephine,  left  alone  on  her  throne  and  almost  terrified 
by  the  spectacle. 

As  he  spoke,  Josephine  noticed  a  slight  stir  close  by. 
Asking  the  cause,  she  learned  that  a  young  girl  who  had 
rashly  broken  through  the  ranks,  at  the  risk  of  being 
trampled  underfoot  by  the  cavalry,  or  crushed  beneath  the 
wheels  of  an  ammunition  wagon,  had  made  this  stir  by 
her  obstinate  insistence  upon  speaking  with  Her  Majesty, 
in  spite  of  the  resistance  of  the  guards  and  the  remon- 
strances of  the  maids  of  honor. 


CHAPTER    II. 

ON  hearing  that  the  Emperor  had  left  Turin  for  Alex- 
andria, Girhardi's  daughter,  Teresa,  for  it  was  she,  who, 
with  a  guide,  carried  Charney's  petition,  was  at  first  over- 
come and  almost  discouraged.  But  she  soon  remembered 
that  in  her  hands  was  the  joy,  the  only  hope  of  a  poor 
prisoner.  The  Count  had  no  idea  who  had  undertaken 
the  perilous  task.  Unmindful,  therefore,  of  weather  or 
of  fatigue,  she  resolved  to  keep  on,  and  told  her  guide  that 
Alexandria  and  not  Turin  was  to  be  their  goal. 

"  Ho  !  ho  !  "  said  the  guide,  scratching  bis  ear.  "  Why, 
that  is  twice  the  distance  that  we  have  already  come." 

"Well !  then  we  must  set  off  at  once." 

"So  I  will,  Signora"  he  quietly  rejoined;  "but  it  will 
be  to  turn  my  back  on  Alexandria  as  well  as  Turin  !  Half- 
way to  Rivoli  I  have  a  cousin  whose  daughter  is  to  be 
married ;  he  may  as  well  keep  me  and  my  horses  for 
nothing;  it  will  be  so  much  saved,  to  say  nothing  of 
the  fun." 

And  when  she  objected  he  replied :  "  I  do  not  refuse  to 
take  you  back  to  Fenestrella  to-morrow  morning,  as  agreed ; 
will  that  suit  you  ?  No  ?  Buon  viaggio,  Signora  J"1 

Nothing  that  she  could  say  would  move  him.  His 
purpose  was  fixed. 

Resolved  to  keep  on  her  way,  Teresa  begged  the  mis- 
tress of  the  inn  where  she  had  put  up,  to  procure  her  some 
conveyance  to  Alexandria  as  soon  as  possible.     The  land- 
1  A  pleasant  journey  to  you,  Madam. 
95 


96  PICCIOLA. 

lady  sent  her  men  to  search  the  city,  but  in  vain;  public 
coaches,  carriages,  beasts  of  burden,  saddle  or  pack  saddle, 
all  had  been  taken  long  ago,  on  account  of  the  festivities 
at  Alexandria. 

Teresa  was  in  despair.  She  stood  on  the  doorstep,  lost 
in  thought,  when  the  noise  of  wheels  and  the  sound  of 
bells  fell  upon  her  ear.  Two  strong  mules  drew  up  before 
her,  harnessed  to  a  peddler's  big  wagon.  The  peddler  and 
his  wife,  dismounting  from  their  seat,  heaved  sighs  of 
satisfaction,  stamped  their  feet,  stretched  their  arms,  and, 
greeting  the  landlady  as  an  old  acquaintance,  they  made 
themselves  at  home  on  the  hearth,  warming  their  hands  at 
the  crackling  fire  of  vine  branches ;  then  they  ordered 
their  mules  to.  be  put  in  the  stable  and  supper  to  be 
brought,  intending  to  go  to  bed  as  soon  as  possible. 

Teresa  gazed  anxiously  at  the  couple,  as  if  her  only  help 
lay  in  them.  Unused  to  depend  upon  herself,  she  stood  hesi- 
tating to  address  them,  when  the  maid  offered  her  a  candle 
and  a  key,  pointing  to  the  room  which  she  was  to  occupy. 

Recalled  to  a  sense  of  her  position,  she  waved  aside  the 
servant,  and,  timidly  advancing  to  the  table,  said  in  a 
trembling  voice  :  "  Forgive  my  asking  you,  but  which  way 
are  you  going  from  Turin?  " 

"Towards  Alexandria,  my  pretty  maid.'* 

"  Alexandria !  my  good  angel  must  have  brought  you 
here ! " 

"  Your  good  angel  brought  us  by  very  bad  roads,  Sig- 
nora"  said  the  woman ;  "and  we  are  worn  out." 

"Well,  what  can  we  do  for  you?"  said  the  peddler. 

"  Urgent  business  takes  me  to  Alexandria ;  can  you 
carry  me  there  ?  " 


PICCIOLA.  97 

"  Impossible  !  "   said  the  woman. 

ff  Oh  !  I  will  pay  you  well !     Ten  crowns  ! " 

"It's  no  easy  matter,"  said  the  man.  "In  the  first 
place,  the  seat  on  the  wagon  is  small ;  it  will  hardly  hold 
three.  To  be  sure,  you  would  not  take  up  much  room ; 
but  there  is  another  difficulty.  We  are  going  to  the  fair 
at  Revignano,  near  Asti,  and  not  to  Alexandria.  It  is 
halfway,  and  that  is  all." 

"Well!"  said  Teresa,  "take  me  as  far  as  Asti;  but  we 
must  start  to-night,  at  once." 

"  Impossible  !  impossible  !  "  repeated  the  pair. 

"  I  will  double  the  price  !  " 

Husband  and  wife  looked  inquiringly  at  each  other. 

"No,  no!"  said  the  woman ;  "it  would  be  enough  to 
make  us  ill;  besides,  Losca  and  Zoppa1  are  dead  beat. 
Do  you  want  to  kill  them  ?  " 

"Twenty  crowns!"  muttered  the  man.  "Twenty 
crowns ! " 

"Losca  and  Zoppa  are  worth  more  than  that." 

However,  the  thought  of  the  twenty  crowns  finally  over- 
came their  reluctance  and  the  mules  were  again  put  to  the 
wagon. 

Teresa,  wrapped  in  her  cloak,  settled  herself  as  best 
she  might  on  the  seat  between  the  husband  and  wife, 
and  they  set  out  just  as  the  clocks  of  Turin  were  striking 
eleven. 

In  her  impatience  to  reach  her  journey's  end,  she  would 

fain   have   been   borne  by  steeds   as  swift  as  the  wind; 

the  mules  plodded  along  slowly,  lifting  one  foot  after  the 

other.     At  last  she  took  upon  herself  to  suggest  that  it 

1  Names  of  the  mules. 


98  PICCIOLA. 

was  important  for  her  to  reach  Asti  promptly,  in  order 
that  she  might  be  at  Alexandria  by  morning. 

"My  pretty  miss,"  replied  her  new  guide,  "I  am  as 
loath  to  pass  the  night  in  counting  the  stars  as  you  are, 
but  a  merchant  must  look  to  his  wares.  I  have  a  stock  of 
earthenware  and  china  to  sell  at  Revignano,  and  if  my 
mules  went  any  faster,  they  might  smash  all  my  wares  to 
atoms." 

Teresa  reproached  herself  bitterly  for  not  asking  sooner 
how  long  it  would  take  to  get  to  Asti ;  she  blamed  her- 
self particularly  for  not  seeking  some  speedier  means  of 
transportation  while  in  Turin,  being  familiar  with  the  city 
as  she  was ;  but  there  was  nothing  now  to  be  done  but  to 
submit. 

The  wagon  pursued  its  accustomed  course.  Losca  and 
Zoppa  moved  no  faster  nor  slower ;  the  peddler  and  his 
wife,  who  had  talked  a  good  deal  about  the  prospects  of 
trade,  were  now  silent ;  and  in  the  darkness,  in  spite  of  the 
painful  numbness  of  her  feet,  due  to  cold,  Teresa  was 
lulled  into  a  doze  by  the  monotonous  tinkle  of  the  mule 
bells.  Her  head  swayed  from  right  to  left,  by  turns  seek- 
ing a  pillow  on  the  shoulder  of  the  woman  and  the  man. 

"Lean  on  me,"  said  her  driver,  "and  rest  well,  my 
pretty  miss." 

She  took  his  advice,  made  herself  as  comfortable  as  she 
could,  and  fell  sound  asleep. 

The  brightness  of  dawn  alone  made  her  open  her  eyes. 
Surprised  to  find  herself  in  the  open  air  on  the  highroad, 
on  looking  about  her  she  saw  with  terror  and  surprise 
that  the  wagon  was  at  a  standstill.  The  peddler,  his  wife, 
and  the  mules  were  all  sound  asleep.  Close  at  hand  were 


PICCIOLA.  99 

spires  and  houses,  and  early  morning  mists  displayed  to  her 
the  beautiful  mountain  scenery  of  the  country  near  Turin. 

"Merciful  Heaven!"  she  cried,  "where  are  we?  Day 
is  breaking  and  we  have  scarcely  passed  the  outskirts  of 
the  town  ! " 

The  peddler  waked  at  her  exclamation  and,  rubbing  his 
eyes,  tried  to  reassure  her. 

"We  are  close  to  Asti,"  he  said,  "and  the  spires  that 
you  see  are  those  of  Revignano.  You  need  not  scold  Losca 
and  Zoppa ;  they  have  only  indulged  in  a  short  nap,  and 
they  needed  it  sadly." 

And  he  cracked  his  whip  so  loudly  that  both  his  wife 
and  the  mules  started  up. 

At  the  gates  of  Asti  the  good  crockery  merchant  took 
leave  of  Teresa,  crossed  himself  with  the  money  which  she 
gave  him,  and  wishing  her  a  successful  journey,  turned 
about  and  retraced  his  steps  to  Revignano. 

Half  the  journey  was  now  accomplished !  On  entering 
Asti  she  expected  to  find  the  entire  population  on  foot, 
making  ready  to  go  to  Alexandria ;  but  what  was  her  sur- 
prise to  find  the  streets  deserted.  Kneeling  before  a  fig- 
ure of  the  Virgin  enshrined  in  the  wall,  she  prayed  for 
help  and  strength.  Just  as  she  rose  to  her  feet  she  heard 
steps,  and  a  man  appeared. 

"Please  tell  me,  sir,"  she  said,  "where  I  shall  find  car- 
riages for  Alexandria." 

"It  is  very  late,  my  fair  maid,"  was  the  reply;  "they 
were  all  engaged  several  days  ago." 

And  he  passed  on. 

A  second  and  a  third  appeared,  a  fourth  and  yet  a  fifth, 
who  gave  no  more  satisfactory  replies.  At  last,  as  a  spe- 


100  PICCIOLA. 

cial  favor,  she  obtained  a  seat  as  far  as  Ancona,  from  where 
it  was  engaged  by  another  traveller. 

Between  Ancona  and  Felizano  she  met  with  fresh  vex- 
ations and  difficulties,  but  triumphed  over  everything. 

When  she  reached  Alexandria  she  was  already  aware 
that  the  Emperor  was  no  longer  there  ;  without  a  moment's 
pause,  therefore,  she  joined  the  crowd,  all  moving  on  foot 
towards  Marengo.  Crushed  by  the  throng  of  sightseers, 
she  hurried  on  as  best  she  might  in  heat  and  dust,  heed- 
less of  the  shouts  and  mirth  about  her,  her  serious  face  in 
strange  contrast  to  the  general  joy. 

But  a  stoppage  in  the  crowd  in  front  of  her  compelling 
her  to  slacken  her  pace,  she  had  time  for  thought.  She 
remembers  her  father,  who  will  be  alarmed  by  her  delay ; 
she  thinks  of  Charney  accusing  his  messenger  of  neglect. 
Her  hand  moves  to  her  bosom  as  if  the  petition  might 
have  dropped  from  its  hiding  place.  Then  her  father 
appears  before  her  again  and  a  tear  dims  her  eye,  but  her 
sad  thoughts  are  interrupted  by  loud  shouts  of  joy. 

A  vast  space  is  formed  about  her,  two  hands  seize  hers 
on  either  side,  and  in  spite  of  her  resistance,  her  fatigue, 
and  her  melancholy  mood,  she  is  forced  to  figure  in  a 
lively  dance  which  whirls  along  the  road,  enlisting  lads 
and  lasses  as  they  pass. 

This  was  not  the  least  painful  incident  of  her  journey. 
But  she  kept  up  her  courage,  for  she  had  almost  reached 
the  goal. 

Freed  from  this  strange  encounter,  she  finally  comes  in 
sight  of  the  plain  ;  and  her  eye,  after  roaming  over  the 
noble  army  arrayed  on  the  field  of  Marengo,  lights  up 
when  it  rests  on  the  imperial  throne. 


PICCIOLA.  101 

All  her  strength,  loyalty,  and  enthusiasm  revive  !  But 
how  is  she  to  reach  the  throne  through  these  myriads  of 
men  and  horses? 

The  foremost  ranks  of  the  crowd  had  encroached  so 
rapidly  on  the  plain  that  they  threatened  to  invade  the 
battlefield.  A  body  of  horsemen  rode  forward,  and  bran- 
dishing their  swords,  their  chargers  plunging  and  rearing, 
they  drove  the  mob  back  within  bounds. 

Teresa,  pale,  trembling,  but  instinctively  directing  her 
course  towards  the  throne,  was  taken  off  her  feet,  borne 
away  by  the  rush.  She  closed  her  eyes  in  terror,  like  a 
child  who  imagines  the  danger  is  over  when  he  ceases  to 
see  it,  clung  to  a  tree,  and  remained  there  motionless. 

So  rapid  was  the  retreat  of  the  people  before  the  advance 
of  the  troops,  that  when  she  raised  her  head  and  looked 
about,  she  found  herself  alone  in  a  thicket  of  trees,  among 
which  trickled  a  tiny  stream.  Gazing  in  the  opposite  direc- 
tion, she  saw  through  the  foliage,  not  three  hundred  paces 
away,  the  throne  upon  which  sat  Josephine  and  Napoleon. 

Teresa  takes  courage ;  the  moment  is  at  hand.  She 
parts  the  branches  to  step  forth ;  but  as  she  does  so,  with 
a  start  of  confusion  and  shame  she  thinks  of  her  untidy 
appearance;  Her  hair  is  unbraided  and  hangs  about  her 
shoulders,  her  hands  and  face  are  covered  with  dust  and 
dirt.  To  appear  thus  before  the  rulers  of  France  and 
Italy  would  be  to  court  a  refusal ! 

She  retreats  into  the  thicket  once  more,  stoops  to  the 
brook,  unties  her  broad-brimmed  straw  hat,  shakes  out 
her  dark  hair,  braids  it,  smooths  her  neck  kerchief,  then 
washes  face  and  hands  in  the  stream,  and  utters  a  fervent 
prayer  to-  Heaven  for  her  father  and  for  Charney. 


102  PICCIOLA. 

As  she  again  watches  for  an  opportune  moment  for  her 
passage,  loud  reports  are  heard  on  every  hand.  The 
ground  seems  to  shake,  the  birds  fly  up  from  the  trees, 
uttering  shrill  cries,  and  take  refuge  in  the  woods  of  Vol- 
pedo  and  the  shades  of  Voghera. 

The  battle  has  begun. 

Teresa,  deafened  by  the  roar  of  the  cannon,  terrified 
by  the  din,  stood  stunned,  her  eyes  riveted  on  the  throne, 
now  visible  and  now  hidden  by  a  moving  screen  of  bayo- 
nets and  lances. 

After  a  space,  when  every  thought  save  that  of  instinc- 
tive horror  seemed  to  leave  her,  her  energy  returned. 
She  examined  more  calmly  the  obstacles  in  her  path  and 
did  not  consider  them  insuperable. 

Two  columns  of  infantry  were  engaged  in  a  brisk  ex- 
change of  shots  just  beyond  the  trees  which  sheltered  her. 
She  hoped  to  make  a  way  for  herself  under  cover  of  the 
smoke,  but  was  still  hesitating  when  a  troop  of  thirsty 
hussars  invaded  her  refuge. 

She  hesitated  no  longer ;  her  courage  strengthened  by 
a  feeling  of  modesty,  she  sprang  between  the  two  columns 
of  infantry,  and  as  the  smoke  at  that  moment  cleared 
away,  the  soldiers  uttered  shouts  of  surprise  at  seeing  in 
the  midst  a  white  petticoat,  a  woman's  hat,  a  pretty, 
graceful  girl,  who  kept  on  her  way  in  spite  of  their  warn- 
ing cries. 

A  squadron  of  cuirassiers  was  hurrying  to  support  one 
of  the  regiments.  The  captain  very  nearly  knocked  Teresa 
down;  but  grasping  her  in  his  arms  just  in  time,  he 
raised  her  from  the  ground,  and  swearing  and  cursing,  but 
never  stopping  to  ask  by  what  chance  a  girl  happened  to 


PICCIOLA.  103 

be  there  in  the  thick  of  the  fray,  he  ordered  two  soldiers 
to  take  her  to  the  women's  tent. 

She  was  put  on  the  crupper  behind  a  trooper,  and  in  this 
way  she  was  conducted  to  the  spot  where  the  ladies  of  the 
Empress  Josephine,  with  a  few  aides-de-camp  and  the 
Italian  deputies  were  stationed. 

Having  reached  the  goal  at  last,  Teresa  could  not  sub- 
mit to  failure  now.  She  had  overcome  too  many  difficul- 
ties to  yield  to  the  final  one ;  consequently,  when,  on  her 
demand  to  speak  with  the  Emperor,  she  was  told  that  he 
was  riding  hither  and  thither  on  the  field  at  the  head  of 
his  troops,  she  exclaimed  resolutely  :  "Then  I  must  see 
the  Empress ! "  but  the  one  was  no  easier  than  the  other. 
To  put  an  end  to  her  importunity  the  courtiers  strove  to 
intimidate  her,  but  they  failed  in  their  attempt.  She  was 
then  told  that  she  must  await  the  end  of  the  evolutions ; 
she  refused  and  tried  to  reach  the  throne.  She  was  held 
back;  she  struggled  and  spoke  in  tones  of  such  excite- 
ment that  the  attention  of  Josephine  herself  was  drawn 
to  her. 


CHAPTER    III. 

JOSEPHINE  had  no  sooner  issued  her  orders  than  the 
group  parted,  and  Teresa  appeared  imploring,  held  back 
and  still  struggling  to  be  free. 

At  a  friendly  sign  from  the  Empress,  all  made  way  for 
the  captive,  who,  still  breathless  and  disordered  by  her 
struggle,  sank  at  the  foot  of  the  throne,  and  hastily  draw- 
ing a  handkerchief  from  her  bosom,  cried  : 

"  Madam  !    Madam  !     A  poor  prisoner !  " 

Josephine  did  not  at  first  understand  the  meaning  of 
this  handkerchief. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked.  "Have  you  a  petition  to 
offer  me?" 

ff  This  is  it,  Madam  ;  this  is  it !  This  is  a  poor  prisoner's 
petition." 

And  tears  ran  down  the  poor  girl's  cheeks,  while  a 
smile  of  hope  lit  up  her  face.  The  Empress  smiled  in 
return,  extended  one  hand,  ordered  her  to  rise,  and  bend- 
ing towards  her  with  a  look  of  benevolence : 

"Come,  come,  child,  recover  yourself.  Are  you  so 
much  interested  in  this  poor  prisoner  ? " 

Teresa  blushed  and  hung  her  head. 

"I  never  spoke  to  him,"  she  replied;  "but  he  is  so 
unfortunate  !  Read  this,  Madam." 

Josephine  unfolded  the  handkerchief,  was  moved  at  the 
thought  of  all  the  misery  and  privations  attested  by  this 
bit  of  cambric,  laboriously  written  over  with  a  makeshift 
for  ink;  then,  pausing  at  the  opening  phrase: 

104 


P2CC2OLA.  105 

"But  it  is  addressed  to  the  Emperor ! " 

"  No  matter !  Are  not  you  his  wife  ?  Read,  read, 
Madam ;  for  Heaven's  sake,  read  !  There  is  no  time  to 
be  lost ! " 

The  battle  had  reached  its  height.  The  Hungarians, 
although  mowed  down  by  Marmont's  artillery,  had  resumed 
their  dread  onslaught.  Zach  and  Desaix  were  face  to 
face,  and  their  encounter  must  result  in  the  salvation  or 
the  destruction  of  the  army. 

Cannon  roared  on  every  hand ;  the  battlefield  was  in 
a  blaze  ;  the  shouts  of  the  soldiers,  mingled  with  the  trum- 
pet blasts  of  war,  stirred  the  air  like  a  whirlwind. 

The  Empress  read : 

"  SIRE,  — 

"Two  paving  stones  the  less  in  my  prison  yard  will 
not  shake  the  foundations  of  your  Empire,  and  such  is  the 
only  favor  which  I  implore  Your  Majesty  to  grant  me.  It 
is  not  for  myself  that  I  entreat  your  protection ;  but, 
in  this  walled  desert  wherein  I  expiate  my  wrongs  against 
you,  one  creature  alone  has  solaced  my  grief,  one  being 
alone  has  lent  charm  to  my  life.  'T  is  a  plant,  Sire,  a  flower 
which  unexpectedly  sprang  up  between  the  stones  of  the 
yard,  where  I  am  at  times  allowed  to  breathe  the  air  and 
look  upon  the  sky.  Ah  !  do  not  accuse  me  of  delirium 
and  folly  !  That  flower  was  the  object  of  such  sweet  and 
comforting  study  !  Fixed  upon  it,  my  eyes  were  opened 
to  the  truth ;  to  it  I  owe  my  reason,  my  rest,  perhaps  my 
life !  I  love  it  as  you  love  glory  ! 

"  As  I  write,  my  poor  plant  is  perishing  for  lack  of  space 
and  earth  ;  it  is  dying  and  I  cannot  rescue  it,  and  the 


106  PICCIOLA. 

commander  of  Fenestrella  refers  my  petition  to  the  Gov- 
ernor of  Turin,  and  ere  they  reach  a  decision,  my  plant 
will  have  perished !  To  you,  Sire,  I  must  therefore  turn ; 
to  you  who  with  a  single  word  can  do  all,  even  save  my 
flower!  Order  the  removal  of  those  two  stones  which 
weigh  upon  my  heart  as  heavily  as  upon  my  plant ;  save 
it  from  destruction,  save  me  from  despair!  Give  the 
order !  it  is  the  life  of  my  plant  that  I  implore  !  I  entreat 
you  to  grant  it ;  nay,  I  beg  you  on  my  bended  knees,  and 
I  swear  it ;  the  favor  shall  redound  to  your  credit  in  my 
heart. 

"  Why  should  it  die  ?  It  has,  I  own  it,  softened  the  blow 
which  your  mighty  hand  saw  fit  to  deal  me ;  but  it  has 
also  humbled  my  pride,  and  it  now  brings  me  suppliant 
to  your  feet.  Look  down  upon  us  from  your  double 
throne.  Can  you  understand  the  bonds  that  unite  a  man 
and  a  plant  in  that  solitude  which  deprives  a  captive  of  all 
but  a  vegetable  existence  ?  No,  you  know  nothing  of  this, 
Sire,  and  may  your  star  guard  you  from  ever  knowing 
what  captivity  can  do  to  the  strongest  and  proudest 
spirit !  I  do  not  complain  of  mine  ;  I  can  bear  it  meekly; 
prolong  it ;  let  it  last  as  long  as  does  my  life ;  but  have 
pity  on  my  plant ! 

"Remember,  Sire,  that  the  favor  I  implore  Your  Majesty 
to  grant  must  be  granted  at  once,  this  very  day !  You 
can  hold  the  sword  suspended  over  the  head  of  the  crimi- 
nal, and  then  raise  it  to  pardon  him  ;  but  nature  obeys 
other  laws  than  the  justice  of  man;  two  days  more,  and 
perhaps  even  the  Emperor  Napoleon  can  do  nothing  for 
the  flower  of  the  prisoner  of  Fenestrella. 

CHARNEY." 


PICCIOLA.  107 

There  was  a  sudden  burst  of  artillery ;  thick  smoke 
covered  the  field  with  a  dark,  yet  lurid  cloud;  then  the 
fires  died  away,  and  it  seemed  as  if  a  hand  outstretched 
from  above  had  suddenly  removed  the  curtain  which  con- 
cealed the  combatants. 

What  a  magnificent  spectacle  in  the  full  blaze  of  the 
sun !  The  brilliant  charge  which  cost  Desaix  his  life  was 
made.  Zach  and  his  Hungarians,  attacked  on  their  front 
by  Bondet,  on  their  left  flank  by  Kellermann  and  his 
cavalry,  reeled  back  in  confusion,  and  the  dauntless  consul 
resumed  the  offensive,  overthrew  the  Imperial  troops  at 
every  point,  and  forced  Melas  to  beat  a  retreat. 

This  sudden  change  of  position,  these  great  military 
movements,  this  human  ebb  and  flow  obedient  to  the  voice 
of  the  chief,  alone,  motionless,  in  the  midst  of  the  apparent 
disorder,  was  well  fitted  to  stir  the  coldest  imagination ; 
cheers  and  shouts  rose  from  the  spectators  stationed  about 
the  throne,  and  this  sound,  in  contrast  to  the  other  sounds 
which  rang  in  her  ears,  at  last  roused  the  Empress  from 
her  deep  revery. 

For  the  future  Queen  of  Italy  had  seen  nothing  of  the 
brilliant  manoeuvres,  the  impressive  pictures  passing  before 
her;  her  eyes  were  still  riveted  on  the  strange  petition  in 
her  hand. 

Her  first  impulse  was  to  encourage  the  young  girl  who 
stood  before  her. 

Teresa,  rejoicing  in  the  prospect  of  success  held  out  by 
that  kindly  smile,  gratefully  and  tearfully  kissed  the  frail 
yet  powerful  hand  which  bore  Napoleon's  marriage  ring, 
and  withdrew  to  the  women's  tent. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

EVERY  word  of  the  petition  had  roused  the  sympathy  of 
the  Empress-Queen,  for  Josephine,  too,  could  worship  a 
flower;  they  were  her  passion,  and  she  had  more  than 
once  forgotten  the  splendor  and  the  cares  of  state  while 
she  watched  an  opening  bud  or  studied  the  structure  of  a 
blossom  in  the  conservatories  at  Malmaison.1 

There  she  had  often  taken  more  pleasure  in  the  purple 
of  a  cactus  than  in  that  of  her  imperial  mantle,  and  the 
scent  of  her  magnolias  was  sweeter  to  her  senses  than  the 
venomous  flatteries  of  her  courtiers.  There  she  loved  to 
reign  supreme,  there  she  gathered  under  one  sceptre  a 
thousand  vegetable  tribes  from  all  the  corners  of  the 
earth.  She  knew  them,  classified  them,  enrolled  them 
in  order  and  according  to  their  race. 

Like  Napoleon,  she  respected  the  laws  and  customs  of 
conquered  nations.  Plants  from  all  nations  found  their 
native  climate  and  soil  in  her  hothouses.  It  was  a  world 
in  miniature.  In  a  limited  space  were  rocks  and  plains, 
forest  and  sand,  lakes,  cascades,  and  pebbly  beaches;  one 
might  pass  from  the  heat  of  the  tropics  to  the  cool  breezes 
of  the  most  temperate  zones. 

When  Josephine  held  an  inspection,  sweet  memories 
were  called  up  by  the  sight  of  certain  flowers.  The 
hortensia  had  lately  borrowed  the  name  of  her  daughter ; 
thoughts  of  glory  came  to  her  too ;  for  after  Bonaparte's 

1  Josephine's  favorite  residence  on  the  banks  of  the  river  Seine.  She 
died  there  in  1814. 

108 


PICCIOLA,  109 

triumphs  she  had  claimed  her  share  of  the  booty,  and 
dreams  of  Italy  and  Egypt  seemed  to  rise  before  her. 
The  Alpine  soldanel,1  the  Parma  violet,  the  Pheasant's 
eye  2  from  Castiglione,  the  Lodi  pink,  the  willow  from  the 
Orient,  the  Malta  Cross,3  the  lily  of  the  Nile,4  the  Syrian 
hibiscus,5  the  rose  of  Damietta,  these  were  her  conquests ! 
And  of  these,  at  least  the  greater  part  still  belong  to 
France ! 

Among  all  her  riches,  she  had  still  her  favorite  flower, 
the  flower  of  her  adoption,  the  lovely  jasmine  from 
Martinique,  whose  seeds,  gathered  by  her,  planted  by 
her,  nursed  by  her,  remind  her  of  home,  childhood, 
girlhood,  her  parents,  and  her  first  love  for  her  first 
husband ! 6 

Oh !  how  well  she  understood  the  unhappy  man's  ter- 
rors for  his  plant !  How  he  must  love  it !  He  has  but 
a  single  one ! 

And  why  should  she  not  feel  for  the  poor  prisoner's 
fate  ?  The  widow  of  Beauharnais  did  not  always  dwell 
in  a  palace.  She  has  not  forgotten  her  days  of  captivity. 
And  then  this  Charney,  Josephine  knew  him  so  calm,  so 
proud,  so  indifferent  to  worldly  pleasures,  such  a  scoffer 
at  the  sweetest  human  affections  !  What  a  change  has 
come  over  him !  What  can  have  bowed  that  haughty 
spirit  ?  He  who  refused  to  bow  even  before  God  now  lies 
prostrate,  imploring  pity  for  a  plant !  Oh  !  it  shall  be 
preserved  to  him  ! 

1  Convolvulus  soldanella.  2  Adonis  autumnalis. 

3  Lychnis  Chalcedonica.         4  Calla  /Ethiopica.        5  Hibiscus  Syriacus. 
6  Viscount  de  Beauharnais,  whom  she  married  at  the  early  age  of  fif- 
teen, and  whose  widow  she  was  when  she  married  Bonaparte. 


110  PICCIOLA. 

In  this  state  of  mind  the  final  manoeuvres  of  the  troops, 
all  the  vain  show  of  battle,  served  only  to  awaken  irrita- 
tion and  impatience  in  her  soul ;  for  she  dreaded  to  lose 
one  of  those  moments  so  necessary  for  the  existence  of 
the  captive's  flower. 

Accordingly,  when  Napoleon,  surrounded  by  his  gen- 
erals, rejoined  her,  expecting  her  congratulations  and 
still  thrilled  by  those  warlike  toils  which  delighted  him, 
she  exclaimed,  with  sparkling  eye  and  eager  voice,  as  if  a 
fresh  victory  were  at  stake,  and  it  were  now  her  turn  to 
take  the  command :  "  Sire,  an  order  for  the  commander  of 
Fenestrella  !  At  once,  an  express  !  " 

And  she  offered  him  the  handkerchief,  outspread  in 
both  hands,  that  he  might  read  it  without  delay. 

Napoleon,  measuring  her  from  head  to  foot,  with  a 
glance  of  displeasure,  turned  his  back  and  passed  on  to 
distribute  crosses  of  the  Legion  of  Honor 1  to  the  veterans 
who  fought  five  years  before  on  the  self-same  field.  The 
chief  magistrates  of  the  Cisalpine2  Republic  were  also 
decorated  by  him.  With  Josephine  he  laid  the  first  stone 
of  a  monument  in  memory  of  the  Battle  of  Marengo,  after 
which  Emperor,  Empress,  ambassadors,  magistrates,  civil- 
ians, and  soldiers  returned  to  Alexandria. 

And  still  Picciola's  fate  was  not  decided ! 

1  An  order  of  knighthood  established  by  Bonaparte  while  First  Consul, 
May  19,  1804,  to  reward  military  and  civil  service. 

2  Founded  by  Bonaparte  in   1797,  it  contained  most  of  the  states  of 
Northern  Italy,  and  lasted  till  1805,  when  it  offered   Napoleon  the  title 
of  King  of  Italy. 


CHAPTER   V. 

THAT  evening,  after  the  state  dinner,  Napoleon  and 
Josephine  were  in  one  of  the  apartments  prepared  for 
them  in  the  town  hall  of  Alexandria,  the  one  dictating 
letters  to  a  secretary,  striding  up  and  down,  rubbing  his 
hands  with  a  satisfied  look ;  the  other  before  a  long 
mirror,  admiring  with  frank  coquetry  her  elegant  dress 
and  her  costly  ornaments. 

When  the  secretary  took  his  leave,  Napoleon  sat  down, 
put  both  elbows  on  the  table  covered  with  red  velvet, 
fringed  with  gold,  leaned  his  head  on  his  hands,  and 
seemed  lost  in  pleasant  musings. 

Josephine  soon  wearied  of  silence.  He  had  already 
slighted  her  once  in  regard  to  the  petition  from  Fenes- 
trella,  and  realizing  that  her  request  had  been  ill-timed, 
she  determined  to  choose  a  more  favorable  moment. 

She  thought  that  it  had  now  come,  and,  seating  herself 
at  the  opposite  side  of  the  table,  she  leaned  upon  it,  in 
imitation  of  her  husband,  affecting  a  similar  abstraction, 
and  soon  both  looked  up  and  smiled. 

"What  are  you  thinking  about?"  asked  Josephine 
caressingly. 

"I  was  thinking,"  he  replied,  "that  a  diadem  becomes 
you  well,  and  that  it  would  be  a  pity  had  I  omitted  to  add 
one  to  your  casket. " 

Josephine's  smile  slowly  faded.  Napoleon's  smile  be- 
came more  pronounced,  for  he  loved  to  combat  the  terrors 
which  she  could  not  but  feel  when  she  thought  of  the 


112  PICCIOLA. 

height  to  which  they  had  attained.  It  was  not  for  herself 
she  trembled,  noble  woman ! 

"Would  you  not  rather  have  me  an  emperor  than  a 
general  ? "  he  added. 

"  To  be  sure,  for  an  emperor  may  grant  favors  and  I 
have  one  to  beg." 

It  was  now  the  husband's  turn  to  frown  and  that  of  the 
wife  to  smile.  He  feared  lest  Josephine's  influence  should 
lead  him  into  dangerous  weaknesses. 

"Again  !  Josephine,  you  promised  never  again  to  inter- 
fere with  the  course  of  justice !  Do  you  think  that  the 
power  to  pardon  is  only  ours  that  we  may  gratify  the 
caprices  of  our  heart  ?  " 

"Sire,"  returned  Josephine,  restraining  a  burst  of 
laughter,  "  I  am  sure  you  will  grant  the  favor  which  I 
beg  of  Your  Majesty." 

"  I  doubt  it !  " 

"  And  I  do  not.  First  and  foremost,  I  request  the 
removal  of  two  .  .  .  oppressors  !  Yes,  Sire,  let  them  be 
dismissed !  Let  them  be  torn  from  their  places  if  need 
be ! " 

So  saying,  she  pressed  her  handkerchief  to  her  lips  ;  for 
as  she  saw  Napoleon's  look  of  amazement  she  could  no 
longer  control  her  mirth. 

"  What  !  do  you  spur  me  on  to  punishment,  you, 
Josephine?  and  to  whom  do  you  refer?" 

"  To  two  paving  stones,  Sire,  which  are  in  the  way  in  a 
courtyard." 

And  the  laughter,  with  such  difficulty  restrained,  burst 
forth  at  last.  He  rose,  and  folding  his  arms  hastily 
behind  him,  stared  at  her  with  suspicion  and  surprise. 


PICCIOLA.  113 

"  What !  what  is  the  meaning  of  this  ?  Two  paving 
stones!  are  you  joking?" 

"No!"  said  she;  and  rising  in  her  turn,  coming  close 
to  him,  and  leaning  with  clasped  hands  on  his  shoulder, 
with  her  graceful  Creole  ease :  "  a  precious  life  hangs  on 
those  two  stones.  Heed  me  well,  Sire,  for  it  requires  all 
your  good-will  to  understand  me." 

She  then  told  him  the  story  of  the  petition  and  all  she 
had  learned  from  Teresa  concerning  the  prisoner,  without 
giving  his  name,  however;  and  she  told  him  of  the  girl's 
devotion  ;  then  turning  to  the  prisoner  and  his  flower,  and 
to  the  love  he  bore  it,  words  flowed  from  her  lips,  sweet, 
tender,  caressing,  full  of  that  charm  and  eloquence  so 
natural  to  her. 

As  he  listened  the  Emperor  smiled,  and  as  he  smiled 
he  admired  his  wife. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

CHARNEY  counted  the  hours,  the  minutes,  the  seconds. 
He  felt  as  if  the  tiniest  divisions  of  time  were  heaped  one 
upon  the  other  to  crush  his  flower  and  break  it.  Two 
days  had  passed ;  no  news  yet ;  even  the  old  man,  anxious 
and  alarmed  in  turn,  could  not  explain  this  silence,  this 
delay;  he  suggested  obstacles,  he  answered  for  the  loyalty 
and  zeal  of  the  messenger  (but  did  not  mention  his 
daughter),  and  strove  to  revive  in  his  comrade's  heart 
the  hope  which  was  fading  from  his  own. 

The  third  day  passed,  and  yet  his  daughter  did  not 
come. 

Throughout  the  fourth  day,  Girhardi  did  not  appear  at 
his  window.  Charney  did  not  see  him ;  but  had  he  lent 
an  attentive  ear,  he  might  have  heard  the  poor  father's 
mingled  sobs  and  prayers. 

The  plant  advanced  steadily  in  its  process  of  dissolution, 
and  Charney,  inconsolable,  watched  Picciola's  last  agony. 
He  had  double  cause  for  depression  ;  he  must  lose  the  joy 
of  his  life,  the  object  of  his  care,  and  he  had  humbled 
himself  to  no  purpose ! 

As  if  all  had  conspired  against  him,  Ludovic,  once  so 
open  and  so  free,  now  avoided  speaking  to 'him.  Silent 
and  sullen,  he  came  and  went,  smoking  his  pipe,  scarcely 
looking  at  him,  and  seeming  to  have  a  grudge  against  him 
for  his  misfortune. 

When  dinner  time  came,  Ludovic  found  Charney  lost  in 
sad  musings  over  his  plant.  He  carefully  avoided  address- 

114 


PICCIOLA.  115 

ing  him  cheerfully  as  of  yore,  crossing  the  yard  rapidly, 
pretending  to  think  that  Charney  was  in  his  cell.  But  all 
at  once  their  eyes  met,  and  Ludovic  paused,  amazed  at 
the  changed  aspect  of  the  prisoner. 

Longing  and  waiting  had  furrowed  his  brow ;  his  color- 
less lips,  his  thin  cheeks  gave  him  an  air  of  depression, 
made  more  striking  by  his  disordered  hair  and  beard.  In 
spite  of  himself,  Ludovic  was  painfully  startled,  but,  recall- 
ing his  resolves  no  doubt,  he  turned  his  eyes  from  the 
man  to  the  plant,  winked  ironically,  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders, whistled  a  tune,  and  was  about  to  retire,  when  a  sad 
but  expressive  voice  asked :  "  What  have  I  done  to  you, 
Ludovic  ? " 

"To  me?  ...  to  me?  ...  Nothing,"  replied  the 
gaoler,  embarrassed  by  this  reproachful  tone  and  more 
moved  than  he  was  willing  to  show. 

"Then,"  rejoined  the  Count,  moving  towards  him,  and 
quickly  grasping  his  hand,  "  let  us  save  her  !  It  is  not  too 
late,  and  I  have  found  out  a  way.  Yes  !  the  commandant 
cannot  be  alarmed.  He  need  never  know  it.  Get  me 
some  earth,  an  empty  box  ;  ...  we  will  take  up  the  stones, 
but  only  for  an  instant.  .  .  .  Who  will  ever  know  ?  We 
can  transplant  it." 

"Pooh!  pooh!  pooh!"  said  Ludovic,  hastily  withdraw- 
ing his  hand  ;  "  the  devil  take  the  flower  !  She  has  injured 
us  all  quite  enough,  beginning  with  you,  who  look  as  if 
you  would  fall  ill  again.  Turn  her  into  herb  tea;  that  is 
all  she  is  good  for  !  " 

Charney  gave  him  a  look  of  scorn  and  anger. 

"  If  she  did  no  one  but  you  a  mischief,"  continued 
Ludovic,  "that's  your  own  business  ;  it 's  all  very  well! 


116  PICCIOLA. 

but  that  poor  man  whom  you  have  robbed  of  his  daughter, 
...    he  is  not  to  see  her  again,  and  he  owes  it  to  you  !  " 

"  His  daughter  !  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  .  .  .  cried  the 
Count. 

"Yes,  that 's  it,  what  do  I  mean  ? "  resumed  the  gaoler, 
putting  down  his  basket  of  provisions,  folding  his  arms, 
and  assuming  the  attitude  of  a  man  about  to  utter  a  sharp 
rebuke.  "  You  whip  the  horses  and  you  expect  the  car- 
riage to  stand  still !  You  strike  a  blow  and  wonder  at  the 
wound  !  Troncttdious  !  O  che  frascheria  ! 1  You  chose 
to  write  to  the  Emperor,  and  you  did  write  to  him ;  so 
far  so  good.  It  was  against  the  commandant's  orders  ;  he 
will  punish  you  as  he  sees  fit,  that 's  but  fair.  But  you 
wanted  a  messenger  to  carry  your  letter,  as  you  could  not 
carry  it  yourself.  That  messenger  was  the  *  giovanna?  "2 

"What!  that  young  girl.  .  .  .     Was  it  she  ?" 

"  Now  pretend  to  be  astonished,  do  !  Did  you  suppose 
your  correspondence  with  the  Emperor  would  go  by  tele- 
graph ?  The  government  has  other  uses  for  that.  .  .  . 
The  fact  is  that  the  commandant  has  found  out  everything. 
...  I  don't  know  how  ;  .  .  .  through  the  guide,  no  doubt ; 
for  the  ' giovanna '  could  not  wander  over  the  roads  alone. 
Now  the  door  of  the  prison  is  closed  against  her.  She 
and  her  father  are  parted.  And  whose  fault  is  it  ? " 

Charney  hid  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"  Miserable  old  man  !  "  he  exclaimed  ;  "  his  only  consola- 
tion !  .  .  .  And  does  he  know  it  ?  " 

"  He  has  known  everything  since  yesterday.  You  may 
fancy  how  he  feels  towards  you.  But  your  dinner  is  get- 
ting cold." 

i  What  nonsense !  2  Young  woman. 


PICCIOLA.  117 

And  he  took  up  the  basket  and  carried  it  into  the  pris- 
oner's cell. 

The  Count  sank  upon  his  bench.  For  a  moment  he  felt 
like  being  done  with  Picciola  at  once,  and  destroying  her 
with  his  own  hand  ;  but  his  heart  failed  him.  Besides,  a 
ray  of  hope  still  shone  faintly  before  him.  That  poor  girl 
who  so  generously  sacrificed  herself  for  him,  and  whose 
eagerness  to  help  a  poor  wretch  has  been  so  cruelly  pun- 
ished, has  returned ;  perhaps  she  succeeded  in  reaching 
the  Emperor  after  all.  Yes,  that  must  be  it !  That  has 
enraged  the  commandant !  But  if  he  holds  the  order  for 
Picciola's  delivery,  why  does  he  delay  ?  He  must  needs 
obey,  if  the  Emperor  commands  !  ff  Oh,  bless  you,  noble 
girl !  poor  girl,  parted  from  your  father !  ...  for  my 
sake !  Oh !  I  would  give  half  my  life  for  you,  ...  for 
your  pleasure.  I  would  give  it  willingly,  .  .  .  only  to 
throw  the  door  of  this  prison  open  to  you  !  " 


CHAPTER   VII. 

A  HALF  hour  had  scarcely  passed,  when  two  officers 
wearing  sashes  of  the  national  colors,  red,  white,  and  blue, 
appeared,  followed  by  the  commander  of  Fenestrella,  and 
requested  Charney  to  return  to  his  cell. 

There,  the  commandant  was  first  to  speak. 

He  was  a  stout  man  with  big,  bald  head  and  thick, 
gray  moustaches.  A  scar  starting  at  the  left  eyebrow  cut 
his  face  in  halves  and  stopped  at  the  upper  lip,  which  it 
slightly  impaired.  A  long,  blue  coat  with  full  skirts, 
buttoned  from  top  to  bottom,  top-boots  drawn  over  his 
trousers,  a  sprinkling  of  powder  on  his  hair,  which  was 
braided  on  either  side  in  the  old-fashioned  way,  and  spurs 
to  his  boots  (no  doubt  as  a  mark  of  distinction,  for  owing 
to  rheumatism  as  well  as  to  the  onerous  duties  of  his  posi- 
tion, he  was  actually  the  greatest  prisoner  in  the  fortress), 
—  such  was  the  outward  appearance  of  this  personage, 
whose  only  weapon  was  a  cane. 

Having  the  custody  of  political  prisoners,  most  of  whom 
were  of  noble  family,  he  prided  himself  on  his  good  breed- 
ing, in  spite  of  his  frequent  bursts  of  temper,  and  on  his 
elegant  diction,  in  spite  of  certain  unfortunate  peculiar- 
ities of  pronunciation.  He  carried  himself  erect,  had 
a  loud,  emphatic  voice,  flourished  his  arm  when  salut- 
ing, and  scratched  his  head  while  he  talked.  Thus 
fashioned,  Colonel  Morand,  in  command  at  Fenestrella, 
might  still  have  passed  for  what  is  called  a  fine  figure 
of  a  soldier. 

118 


PICCIOLA.  119 

From  the  courteous  tone  which  he  at  first  assumed,  and 
the  official  air  of  his  two  companions,  Charney  thought 
that  they  had  brought  him  Picciola's  pardon. 

The  colonel  asked  him  to  say  whether  he  had  ever  acted 
unhandsomely  towards  him,  in  the  exercise  of  his  duty, 
either  by  lack  of  care  or  by  abuse  of  power. 

This  preface  sounded  well.  Charney  protested  all  that 
he  could  in  his  favor. 

"  You  know,  sir,  that  when  you  were  ill,  every  attention 
was  lavished  upon  you ;  if  you  did  not  choose  to  follow 
the  prescriptions  of  the  doctors,  the  fault  was  neither  theirs 
nor  mine.  I  thought  that  fresh  air  and  exercise  might 
hasten  your  recovery,  and  you  were  allowed  almost  entire 
liberty  to  come  and  go  in  your  courtyard." 

Charney  bowed  as  if  to  thank  him  ;  but  he  was  devoured 
by  impatience. 

"And  yet,  sir,"  resumed  the  colonel  in  the  tone  of  a 
man  whose  delicacy  has  been  wounded,  his  attentions 
ignored,  "you  have  broken  the  ordinary  rules  of  the 
establishment,  with  which  you  must  have  been  familiar ; 
you  have  come  near  compromising  me  with  the  Governor 
of  Piedmont,  General  Menou,  and  even  with  the  Emperor, 
by  forwarding  a  petition  to  His  Majesty." 

"Forwarding!  then  he  has  received  it?"  interrupted 
Charney. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"Well?" 

And  he  quivered  with  impatience. 

"Well,"  replied  the  commandant,  "for  so  doing  you  will 
be  transferred  to  one  of  the  cells  in  the  old  bastion,  where 
you  will  remain  in  close  confinement  for  a  month." 


120  PICCIOLA. 

"  But  tell  me,"  cried  Charney,  still  trying  to  struggle 
against  the  cruel  reality  which  robbed  him  of  his  last 
illusions,  "what  did  the  Emperor  say?" 

"The  Emperor  cannot  attend  to  such  nonsense!  "  was 
the  contemptuous  reply. 

Charney  sank  upon  the  only  chair  with  which  his  cell 
was  provided  and  paid  little  heed  to  what  followed. 

"That  is  not  all.  Your  means  of  communication 
known,  your  relations  with  the  outside  discovered,  it  is 
natural  to  suppose  that  your  correspondence  was  carried 
farther.  Have  you  written  to  any  one  besides  His 
Majesty  ? " 

Charney  made  no  answer. 

"A  careful  search  has  been  ordered,"  added  the  colonel 
in  a  harsher  tone,  "  and  these  gentlemen,  appointed  by  the 
Governor  of  Turin,  will  proceed  to  make  it  in  your  pres- 
ence, as  the  law  directs.  Before  carrying  out  this  order, 
have  you  anything  to  say  ?  Confession  will  do  much  to 
help  your  cause." 

The  same  silence  on  the  prisoner's  part. 

The  colonel  frowned,  and  turning  to  his  companions  he 
said  : 

"  Proceed ! " 

The  two  at  once  began  to  search  every  nook  and  corner 
from  the  chimney  and  the  mattress  to  the  inner  lining  of 
the  Count's  clothes. 

Meantime  the  colonel,  pacing  up  and  down  the  narrow 
cell,  tapped  the  flagstones  with  his  cane,  to  see  if  they 
contained  a  secret  hiding  place  for  important  papers,  or 
even  the  preparations  for  flight,  which  would  not  be  diffi- 
cult, as  Fenestrella  was  anything  but  a  secure  prison. 


PICCIOLA.  121 

Since  1796  it  had  been  a  partial  ruin,  and  but  a  few 
soldiers  were  left  to  guard  its  outer  walls. 

After  a  prolonged  search,  nothing  suspicious  was  found 
but  a  small  glass  bottle  filled  with  blackish  liquid,  no  doubt 
the  prisoner's  ink. 

When  asked  as  to  how  he  got  this  ink,  he  turned  his 
chair  to  the  window  and  began  to  drum  on  the  panes, 
without  replying  to  the  question. 

Only  the  dressing  case  remained  to  be  examined.  He 
was  asked  for  the  key. 

He  flung  it  on  the  floor. 

Colonel  Morand  choked  with  indignation.  His  face 
crimson,  his  eyes  flashing,  he  strode  up  and  down,  button- 
ing and  unbuttoning  his  coat  with  trembling  hands,  as  if 
to  restrain  his  fury. 

Suddenly,  with  one  accord,  the  two  police  spies  occupied 
in  searching  the  dressing  case,  one  holding  it,  the  other 
fumbling  over  it,  ran  to  the  window  for  more  light  and 
rapturously  shouted  : 

"  We  have  it !     We  have  it !  " 

Pulling  from  a  secret  drawer  a  number  of  handkerchiefs, 
blackened  all  over  with  fine,  close  characters,  they  imagine 
that  they  have  hit  upon  the  proofs  of  a  vast  conspiracy. 

Seeing  his  precious  records  profaned,  Charney  springs 
up,  puts  forth  his  hand  to  grasp  them,  opens  his  lips,  .  .  . 
then,  recovering  his  composure,  he  sits  down  again  with- 
out a  word. 

But  his  first  impulse  to  rescue,  was  enough  to  lead  the 
commandant  to  attach  great  value  to  the  capture. 

By  his  order  the  handkerchiefs  are  at  once  tied  up  and 
sealed  ;  even  the  bottle  and  the  toothpick  pen  are  confis- 


122  PICCIOLA. 

cated.  A  report  is  drawn  up.  Charney,  being  asked  to 
sign  it  in  proof  that  it  is  correct,  refuses  by  a  shake  of  his 
head. 

This  refusal  is  set  down,  and  he  is  commanded  to  go  at 
once  to  the  cell  in  the  old  bastion. 

Oh !  how  sad,  how  vague,  and  how  confused  were  his 
thoughts !  His  only  feeling  was  one  of  grief  and  pain. 
He  had  not  even  a  smile  of  contempt  to  bestow  on  the 
triumph  of  those  men,  so  proud  to  bear  off  his  observa- 
tions on  his  plant,  as  legal  evidence,  as  proof  of  a  plot ! 
He  was  forever  parted  from  his  memories !  The  lover 
robbed  of  the  letters  and  portrait  of  an  adored  ladylove 
whom  he  is  never  again  to  see,  can  alone  understand  the 
prisoner's  agony.  To  save  Picciola  he  has  imperilled  his 
honor  and  his  pride;  he  has  broken  an  old  man's  heart 
and  ruined  a  young  girl's  life ;  and  of  all  which  reconciled 
him  to  life  nothing  is  left  him,  not  even  the  lines  which 
he  had  written  and  which  summed  up  his  blest  studies. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

JOSEPHINE'S  intercession  was  not  so  powerful  as  it  prom- 
ised to  be.  After  her  gentle  plea  in  favor  of  the  prisoner 
and  his  plant,  when  she  placed  the  handkerchief  with  its 
petition  in  Napoleon's  hands,  he  recalled  the  strange  lack 
of  attention,  so  offensive  to  his  pride,  which  the  Empress 
had  shown  that  morning  during  the  warlike  sport  at  Ma- 
rengo,  and  Charney's  signature  added  to  the  disagreeable 
impression. 

"Has  the  fellow  gone  mad?"  he  said,  "and  what  trick 
is  he  trying  to  play  on  me?  A  Jacobin  a  botanist?1  I 
think  I  still  hear  Marat 2  enlarge  upon  the  beauties  of  rural 
scenery,  or  see  Couthon  3  appear  at  the  Convention  with  a 
rose  in  his  buttonhole  !  " 

Josephine  would  have  objected  to  the  title  of  Jacobin, 
so  lightly  applied  to  the  noble  Count,  but  just  then  a 
chamberlain  entered  and  informed  the  Emperor  that  gen- 
erals, ambassadors,  and  Italian  deputies  were  waiting  for 
him  in  the  drawing-room.  He  at  once  joined  them  and 
availed  himself  of  Charney's  name  and  petition  to  make  a 
vigorous  assault  upon  philosophers  and  Jacobins,  whom  he 
vowed  he  would  bring  to  unconditional  terms.  Quick  to 

1  Jacobin,  a  member  of  the  club  of  the  Friends  of  the  Constitution,  who 
in  1789  held  meetings  in  a  Dominican  Convent  in  the  Rue  St.  Jacques, 
Paris. 

2  Famous   Terrorist,  editor  of  the  "  Friend  of  the  People"  killed  by 
Charlotte  Corday,  1793. 

8  Another  Terrorist,  guillotined  1794,  after  the  fall  of  his  friend  and 
leader,  Robespierre. 

123 


124  PICCIOLA. 

profit  by  circumstances,  he  raised  his  voice  resolutely  and 
threateningly,  not  that  he  was  as  excited  as  he  pretended 
to  be,  but  he  wished  his  words  to  be  heard  and  repeated, 
especially  by  the  Prussian  ambassador. 

This  was  his  act  of  divorce  from  the  cause  of  the  Revo- 
lution. 

Josephine,  alarmed  for  a  moment  by  the  storm  that  she 
had  caused,  soon  recovered  from  her  fears,  and  whispered 
half  mockingly  in  Napoleon's  ear  :  "  Oh,  Sire,  why  such 
a  tempest  ?  There  is  no  question  of  Jacobins  here  or 
of  revolutionists,  but  only  of  a  poor  flower  which  never 
conspired  against  any  one." 

The  Emperor  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Do  they  think  to  deceive  me  with  such  nonsense?" 
he  exclaimed.  "  This  Charney  is  a  dangerous  fellow  and 
no  fool !  The  flower  is  a  mere  pretext,  .  .  .  the  object 
to  take  up  the  paving  stones.  He  is  preparing  to  escape ! 
Look  out  for  him,  Menou.  And  how  does  it  happen  that 
the  fellow  writes  to  me  without  sending  his  petition 
through  the  colonel's  hands  ?  Is  this  the  discipline  in 
your  state  prisons  ?  " 

The  Empress  made  another  effort  to  defend  her  favorite. 

"  Enough,  madam  !  "  said  the  master. 

Menou,  reproved  by  the  Emperor,  was  not  chary  of 
blame  with  the  colonel  in  command  at  Fenestrella ;  and 
the  latter,  in  his  turn,  was  quick  to  avenge  himself  on  the 
prisoners  to  whom  he  owed  so  sharp  a  reprimand. 

Girhardi's  cell  was  searched,  but  nothing  suspicious  was 
found.  His  daughter,  however,  was  forbidden  to  revisit 
her  father. 

As    for  the  Count,  he  was  destined   to  undergo  even 


PICCIOLA.  125 

more  painful  emotions  than  those  caused  by  the  seizure 
of  his  manuscripts. 

When  he  stepped  into  the  courtyard  on  his  way  to  his 
new  cell,  in  the  train  of  the  colonel  and  his  acolytes,  the 
colonel's  rage  seemed  to  be  redoubled  by  the  sight  of  the 
frail  scaffolding  about  the  plant,  either  because  he  had  not 
noticed  it  before  or  because  he  wished  to  punish  Charney 
for  his  obstinate  silence. 

"  What  is  all  that  ?  "  he  said  to  Ludovic,  who  came  at  his 
call.  "  Is  this  the  way  you  look  out  for  your  prisoners  ? " 

"That,  colonel,"  the  gaoler  replied  with  a  grunt  of 
hesitation,  taking  his  pipe  from  his  mouth  and  lifting  his 
hand  to  his  cap  in  salute ;  "  that 's  the  plant  I  told  you 
about ;  .  .  .  the  one  that  is  so  good  for  gout  and  such-like 
troubles." 

"The  devil!  "  said  the  colonel,  "if  these  gentlemen  are 
allowed  to  have  their  way,  the  cells  and  courtyards  of  the 
citadel  will  be  turned  into  gardens,  menageries,  and  wine 
shops  !  Come !  root  up  that  weed  and  all  that  rubbish 
about  it!" 

Ludovic  looked  at  the  plant,  at  Charney,  and  at  the 
colonel ;  he  tried  to  utter  a  few  words  of  excuse. 

"Hold  your  tongue!"  cried  the  colonel,  "and  do  as  I 
bid  you  ! " 

Ludovic  said  no  more.  He  again  took  his  pipe  from 
his  mouth,  put  it  out,  emptied  it,  laid  it  on  a  ledge,  and 
made  ready  to  obey  his  orders.  He  took  off  his  jacket 
and  his  cap  and  rubbed  his  hands  to  work  up  his  courage. 
All  at  once,  as  if  the  colonel's  rage  were  contagious,  he 
tore  up  the  matting,  plucked  it  apart,  and  flung  it  about 
the  yard  in  a  sort  of  fury.  Next  came  the  stakes ;  he 


126  PICCIOLA. 

broke  them  over  his  knee  and  hurled  them  away.  His 
old  love  for  Picciola  seemed  changed  to  hate ;  he  seemed 
avenging  himself  for  some  fancied  wrong. 

Charney  stood  rooted  to  the  spot,  his  eyes  eagerly 
riveted  on  his  plant,  as  if  his  gaze  could  still  protect  her. 

The  day  had  been  cool,  the  sky  overcast ;  the  plant  had 
revived  during  the  day,  and  from  the  midst  of  the  withered 
branches  sprang  tiny  green  shoots.  It  was  as  if  Picciola 
were  gathering  strength  to  die ! 

What !  Picciola,  his  Picciola !  His  real  world  and  his 
ideal  world,  the  pivot  of  his  existence,  must  perish  !  What 
would  fill  his  sad  leisure  now  ?  What  would  fill  his  empty 
heart  ?  No  more  plans,  no  more  studies,  no  more  sweet 
dreams,  no  experiments  to  note  down,  nothing  to  love  ! 
Oh  !  how  narrow  his  prison  walls  would  be  !  How  oppress- 
ive the  air  !  It  would  be  but  a  tomb  !  Picciola's  tomb  ! 

Just  then  he  saw  a  shadow  at  the  little  grated  window. 
It  was  the  old  man  ! 

"  Ah  !  "  he  thought,  "  I  have  robbed  him  of  his  only  joy, 
I  have  parted  him  from  his  daughter !  He  has  come  to 
enjoy  my  anguish,  to  curse  me,  no  doubt !  I  cannot 
blame  him,  for  what  is  my  misery  in  comparison  with 
his  despair? " 

He  dared  not  raise  his  eyes  to  implore  pardon  of  the 
only  man  whose  esteem  he  cared  to  retain ;  he  feared  to 
read  on  that  noble  face  signs  of  merited  reproach  or  scorn  ; 
but  when  their  eyes  met,  the  look  of  tender  pity  addressed 
to  him  by  the  poor  father,  forgetting  his  own  sorrows  in 
those  of  his  companion  in  misfortune,  stirred  him  to  the 
soul,  and  two  tears,  the  only  tears  he  ever  shed,  stole  from 
his  eyes. 


PIC  CIO  LA.  127 

Those  tears  were  sweet ;  but  a  remnant  of  pride  led 
him  to  wipe  them  away  hastily.  He  would  not  be  sus- 
pected of  weakness  by  those  about  him. 

Of  all  the  witnesses  to  this  scene,  the  two  police  spies 
alone  seemed  not  to  understand  the  drama  enacted  before 
them.  They  stared  by  turns  at  the  prisoner,  the  old  man, 
the  colonel,  and  the  gaoler,  amazed  at  the  emotion  stamped 
upon  their  features,  and  wondering  if  some  precious  treas- 
ure lay  buried  beneath  so  well  barricaded  a  flower. 

But  the  fatal  work  went  on.  Urged  by  the  colonel, 
Ludovic  tried  to  remove  the  supports  of  the  rustic  seat, 
but  they  resisted  his  efforts. 

"  An  axe,  take  an  axe  ! "  cried  the  colonel. 

Ludovic  took  one ;  it  fell  from  his  hand. 

"Confound  you,  be  done  with  it !"  said  the  colonel. 

At  the  first  blow,  the  bench  yielded ;  at  the  third,  it 
was  in  fragments.  Then  Ludovic  stooped  to  the  plant, 
left  standing  alone  amidst  the  wreck. 

The  Count  was  pale  and  hollow-eyed ;  sweat  poured 
from  his  brow. 

"  Sir,  sir  !  Why  kill  it  ?  It  will  soon  die  in  any  case," 
he  cried  at  last,  humbled  once  more  to  play  the  suppliant. 

The  colonel  looked  at  him,  smiled  satirically,  and  in  his 
turn  made  no  reply. 

"Very  well!"  exclaimed  Charney ;  "I  will  do  it !  I 
will  tear  it  up  with  my  own  hand!" 

"  I  forbid  you ! "  said  the  colonel  in  his  gruff  voice ; 
and  he  stretched  his  cane  like  a  barrier  between  Charney 
and  his  companion.  Then,  at  his  imperative  sign,  Ludovic 
grasped  Picciola  in  both  hands  to  uproot  her  from  the 
earth. 


128  PICCIOLA. 

Charney,  dismayed,  utterly  crushed,  again  riveted  his 
eyes  upon  her. 

Close  to  the  ground  where  the  sap  still  ran,  a  tiny 
flower  had  bloomed,  bright  and  many-hued.  The  other 
blossoms  already  hung  dejected  on  their  withered  stalks. 
This  one  alone  still  lived ;  it  alone  was  not  crushed  and 
stifled  by  the  gaoler's  big,  rough  hands.  It  turned 
towards  Charney.  He  fancied  he  inhaled  its  perfume, 
and  his  eyes  wet  with  tears,  he  saw  it  glitter,  disappear, 
and  again  appear. 

Man  and  plant  exchanged  a  last  look  of  farewell. 

If  at  this  moment  when  so  many  interests  and  emotions 
centered  about  a  frail  plant,  strangers  had  appeared  sud- 
denly in  the  prison  yard,  on  beholding  the  scene  before 
them,  those  officers  decked  in  tricolored  scarfs,  the  colonel 
pronouncing  his  merciless  decree,  would  they  not  have 
thought  they  saw  some  secret,  bloody  execution,  where 
Ludovic  played  the  hangman's  part,  and  Charney  that  of 
the  criminal  who  has  just  heard  his  sentence  ?  Such  stran- 
gers are  at  hand  !  They  are  here  ! 

One  is  an  aide-de-camp  of  General  Menou ;  the  other  a 
page  of  the  Empress.  The  dust  which  covers  them  shows 
that  they  have  made  good  speed.  And  it  was  high  time ! 

At  the  sound  of  their  footsteps,  Ludovic  released  Picci- 
ola,  raised  his  head,  and  Charney  and  he  looked  into  each 
other's  eyes.  Both  of  them  were  as  pale  as  ashes ! 

The  aide-de-camp  handed  Colonel  Morand  an  order  from 
the  Governor  of  Turin ;  the  colonel  read  it,  hesitated, 
walked  up  and  down,  compared  the  message  just  received 
with  that  received  the  night  before  ;  then,  raising  his  eye- 
brows repeatedly  in  token  of  his  great  surprise,  he  affects 


PICCIOLA.  129 

a  semi-courteous  air,  approaches  Charney,  and  graciously 
hands  him  the  general's  letter. 
The  prisoner  read  aloud  : 

ff  His  Majesty  the  Emperor  and  King  commands  me 
to  inform  you  that  he  grants  Mr.  Charney's  application, 
relating  to  the  plant  which  grows  between  the  paving 
stones  of  his  prison.  Those  which  interfere  with  it  may 
be  removed.  I  desire  you  to  see  that  this  order  is  carried 
out,  and  to  arrange  with  Mr.  Charney  on  this  head." 

"  Long  live  the  Emperor  !  "  shouts  Ludovic. 

"  Long  live  the  Emperor ! "  murmurs  another  voice, 
which  seems  to  issue  from  the  wall. 

While  Charney  read,  the  colonel  leaned  on  his  cane,  as 
if  to  keep  himself  in  countenance ;  the  two  men  with  the 
scarfs,  still  unable  to  understand  the  meaning  of  all  this, 
seemed  mystified;  the  aide-de-camp  and  the  page  wondered 
why  they  had  been  sent  there  in  such  hot  haste.  Finally 
the  page,  turning  to  Charney,  said : 

"  There  is  a  postscript  from  the  Empress." 

And  Charney  read  upon  the  margin  : 

?f  I  recommend  Mr.  Charney  to  the  special  consideration 
of  Colonel  Morand.  I  shall  be  particularly  grateful  to  the 
colonel  for  all  that  he  may  do  to  alleviate  the  condition  of 

his  prisoner.  ,, 

[Signed  \  JOSEPHINE. 

ff  Long  live  the  Empress  !  "  cried  Ludovic. 
Charney  kissed  the  signature  and  for  some  moments 
held  the  message  before  his  eyes. 


BOOK     THIRD. 


CHAPTER    I. 

THE  commandant  of  Fenestrella  now  renewed  his  atten- 
tions to  the  favorite  of  Her  Majesty  the  Empress  and 
Queen.  Not  only  Charney  was  not  removed  to  the 
bastion  cell,  but  he  was  allowed  to  restore  the  scaffold- 
ings and  mattings,  more  needful  than  ever  to  Picciola, 
who  still  drooped  and  hung  her  head. 

Colonel  Morand's  rage  against  man  and  plant  was  so 
entirely  assuaged  that  he  sent  Ludovic  every  morning  to 
inquire  if  he  could  do  anything  for  the  prisoner  and 
to  ask  after  Picciola. 

Thanks  to  this  friendly  feeling,  Charney  obtained  pens, 
ink,  and  paper,  to  set  down  anew  from  memory  his  obser- 
vations and  studies  in  plant  life ;  for  the  letter  from  the 
Governor  of  Turin  did  not  cancel  the  search  and  capture ; 
the  police  spies  bore  off  his  records  on  linen,  and,  after 
careful  examination,  declaring  that  "they  were  quite  unable 
to  find  the  key  to  this  correspondence,"  they  despatched 
it  all  to  Paris,  to  the  chief  of  police,  to  be  deciphered  by 
men  more  skilful  and  more  expert  than  they. 

Charney  suffered  another  privation,  far  more  important, 
for  its  loss  was  not  so  readily  supplied. 

The  colonel,  to  avenge  himself  on  Girhardi  for  General 
Menou's  reproaches  of  his  want  of  vigilance,  removed  the 

'30 


PICCIOLA.  131 

Italian  to  another  part  of  the  fortress.  This  separation, 
which  left  the  old  man  totally  alone,  filled  Charney  with 
remorse  and  neutralized  the  favors  which  he  received. 

He  spent  most  of  the  day  with  his  eyes  on  the  grating 
and  the  closed  window.  He  fancied  that  he  still  saw  the 
good  old  rr^an  stand  there,  his  arm  pushed  through  the 
bars  in  a  vain  attempt  to  grasp  a  friendly  hand ;  he  saw 
his  petition  to  the  Emperor  drawn  up  by  a  string,  passing 
from  him  to  Girhardi,  from  Girhardi  to  Teresa,  from  Teresa 
to  the  Empress ;  and  behind  those  bars  there  once  more 
shone  and  beamed  that  look  of  pardon  and  pity  which  so 
lately  upheld  him  in  his  bitterest  agony,  and  he  heard  that 
cry  of  joy  from  a  broken  heart  when  Picciola's  pardon 
came  at  last ! 

It  is  to  him,  to  them  that  he  owes  that  pardon,  and  for 
that  rash  attempt,  by  which  Charney  alone  could  benefit; 
they  only  were  punished,  cruelly  punished  !  Poor  father  ! 
poor  daughter ! 

She,  too,  often  appeared  to  him  in  the  very  place  where 
he  had  once  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  on  waking  from  that 
painful  dream  which  foretold  the  death  of  his  plant.  On 
that  day,  in  his  confusion  and  distress,  he  thought  he 
recognized  in  her  all  the  features  of  the  Picciola  of  his 
dreams,  and  so  he  seems  to  see  her  now. 

As  the  prisoner  cherished  these  sweet  visions,  his  eyes 
still  bent  on  the  former  abode  of  Girhardi,  something 
moved  behind  the  dim  panes;  the  little  window  is  opened; 
a  woman  stands  behind  the  bars.  She  has  a  dark,  muddy 
skin,  a  huge  goitre,  a  cruel,  avaricious  look  in  her  eyes. 

It  is  Ludovic's  wife. 

Thenceforth  Charney  saw  no  more  visions  there. 


CHAPTER    II. 

FREED  from  her  shackles,  planted  in  rich  earth,  with 
ample  space  about  her,  Picciola  recovered  from  her  injuries, 
held  up  her  head,  and  rose  triumphant  from  all  her  woes. 
Still,  she  had  lost  all  her  blossoms  save  the  tiny  flower, 
the  last  to  bloom,  at  the  foot  of  the  stalk. 

Now  that  she  had  ample  space,  now  that  her  seeds  were 
swelling  and  ripening,  Charney  looked  forward  to  new  and 
splendid  discoveries,  and  even  dreamed  of  the  dies  semi- 
nalisy  the  day  for  sowing  the  seed !  For  he  had  now 
abundant  garden  room ;  there  was  more  than  enough  for 
Picciola ;  she  may  become  a  mother  and  see  her  children 
flourish  in  her  shade  ! 

While  awaiting  that  great  day,  he  is  seized  with  a  desire 
to  know  the  true  name  of  the  companion  with  whom  he 
had  passed  so  many  happy  moments. 

"  What !  am  I  never  to  give  Picciola,  the  poor  foundling, 
the  name  allotted  her  by  science  or  by  everyday  custom, 
which  she  bears  in  common  with  her  sisters  of  the  fields 
or  the  mountains  ?  " 

Charney  mentioned  to  the  colonel,  who  came  to  see 
him,  his  desire  for  some  work  on  botany.  Although  not 
objecting  to  this,  the  colonel,  to  throw  the  responsibility 
upon  some  one  else,  wrote  to  the  Governor  of  Turin  for 
leave  to  grant  the  request ;  and  Menou  not  only  granted 
it  at  once,  but  he  sent  a  quantity  of  books  from  the  Turin 
library,  to  help  the  prisoner  in  his  researches, ..."  hoping," 
he  wrote,  "that  Her  Majesty  the  Empress  and  Queen, 

132 


PICCIOLA.  133 

herself  highly  skilled  in  this  branch  of  knowledge,  as  in 
so  many  others,  would  be  pleased  to  learn  the  name  of  the 
flower  in  which  she  had  taken  so  lively  an  interest." 

Charney  smiled  when  he  saw  the  mass  of  learning 
brought  him  by  Ludovic,  bending  under  the  load. 

"  Is  such  heavy  artillery  needed,"  he  said,  "to  force  the 
flower  to  tell  me  her  name  ?  " 

And  yet  it  was  with  a  sense  of  pleasure  that  he  once 
more  handled  a  book.  He  turned  the  pages  with  the 
same  thrill  of  curiosity  which  he  used  to  feel  when  knowl- 
edge was  to  him  a  mysterious  and  highly  desirable  thing. 
The  only  knowledge  which  he  now  craves  is  that  of 
flowers,  that  of  Nature  in  her  most  graceful  expression. 

"If  ever  I  leave  these  walls,"  he  thinks,  "I  will  be  a 
botanist ! " 

Although  somewhat  appalled  by  the  array  of  learning 
before  him,  he  is  not  discouraged ;  and  in  preparation  for 
his  search  he  opens  the  smallest  volume,  to  see  by  the 
index  how  many  names  a  plant  might  bear. 

How  he  longed  to  be  free  to  choose  from  this  calendar 
of  flowers  between  Alcea,  Alisma,  Andryala,  Bromelia, 
Celosia,  Coronilla,  Euphrasia,  Helvella,  Passiflora,  Primula, 
Santolina,  and  other  names  sweet  to  the  lip,  melodious 
to  the  ear ! 

He  had  a  sudden  dread  that  his  plant  might  bear  some 
odd  and  ugly  name,  with  a  masculine  or  neuter  ending, 
which  would  have  upset  all  his  ideas  in  regard  to  his 
friend  and  comrade. 

What  would  become  of  the  maiden  of  his  dreams  if  he 
had  to  give  her  some  such  title  as  Hydrocharis  morsus 
ranceY  or  Satyrium  Nyoscyanus,  or  Gossypium^  Cynoglossum 


134  PICCIOLA. 

or  CucubaluSt  Ceuchrus,  Ruscus !  or  even  some  name  in 
plain  English,  more  barbarous  yet,  like  rest-harrow,  fly- 
trap, sow-head,  crane's-bill,  dog's-tooth,  mouse-ear,  cat-tail, 
snapdragon,  goat's  beard,  hart's-tongue,  or  cuckoo-pint ! 
Would  not  that  be  enough  to  disenchant  him  forever? 
No !  he  would  not  risk  such  a  test ! 

And  yet,  in  spite  of  this  resolve,  he  took  up  each  volume 
in  turn,  opened  it  and  turned  the  leaves,  lost  in  wonder  at 
the  countless  marvels  of  nature,  annoyed  by  the  systematic 
mind  of  men,  which  turned  that  study,  hitherto  so  attract- 
ive to  him,  into  the  sternest,  most  technical,  and  most 
confusing  of  all  sciences  ! 

For  a  whole  long  week  he  tried  to  analyze  his  plant,  so 
that  he  might  find  out  its  name ;  but  all  in  vain.  In  the 
midst  of  his  experiments,  a  thousand  times  repeated,  the 
tiny  flower,  the  solitary  flower,  questioned  petal  by  petal, 
searched  to  its  very  calyx,  suddenly  dropped  apart  in  the 
hand  of  the  analyzer,  the  dissector,  and  fell,  bearing  with 
it  all  his  plans  for  studying  the  seed,  his  hopes  of  seed 
time,  and  of  future  generations  of  Picciolas ! 

Charney  stood  in  silent  consternation ;  then,  with  a 
trembling  voice  and  angry  glance,  addressing  the  books 
which  lay  open  on  his  knee  and  about  him,  he  exclaimed : 
"  Why  should  I  consult  you  ?  Her  name  is  f  Picciola ! ' 
Nothing  but '  Picciola  ! '  the  prisoner's  plant,  his  comforter, 
his  friend  !  Why  should  she  need  another  name,  and  why 
should  I  care  to  know  ?  Fool !  Is  there  no  cure  for  this 
thirst  after  knowledge,  ...  no  certain  remedy?" 

And  with  an  impulse  of  wrath,  snatching  up  the  books 
one  after  the  other,  he  flung  them  to  the  ground.  A 
scrap  of  paper  fell  from  the  leaves  of  one  of  them  and  flut- 


PICCIOLA.  135 

tered  to  the  floor.  Charney  caught  it  up.  It  contained 
these  words,  freshly  written,  in  a  woman's  hand: 

"Hope,  and  bid  thy  neighbor  hope,  for  I  forget  thee  not, 
neither  him  nor  thee  !  " 

(Gospel  according  to  St.  Matthew?) 


CHAPTER    III. 

CHARNEY  read  and  reread  this  note,  the  meaning  of 
which  was  unmistakable ;  for  one  only  among  women 
had  been  all  love  and  devotion  to  him,  and  that  woman  he 
had  scarcely  seen ;  he  had  never  heard  her  voice ;  and  had 
she  appeared  suddenly  before  him,  he  would  probably  not 
have  recognized  her.  But  how  had  she  eluded  the  vigi- 
lance of  his  Argus  a-eyed  gaolers,  how  had  she  managed  to 
transmit  these  lines  to  him  ?  "Bid  thy  neighbor  hope.  .  .  ." 
Poor  girl !  she  dared  not  use  her  father's  name.  Poor 
father !  he  could  not  even  show  him  this  token  of  his 
daughter's  affection. 

As  he  thought  of  the  good  old  man,  whose  cup  of 
bitterness  he  had  filled,  and  whose  grief  he  was  for- 
bidden to  soothe,  he  was  pierced  with  regret,  and  the 
sad  image  of  Girhardi  was  often  before  him  in  his 
sleepless  nights. 

During  one  of  these  wakeful  nights  he  heard  an  unusual 
noise  over  his  head,  in  a  cell  which  had  hitherto  been 
vacant,  and  his  mind  was  filled  with  conjectures,  each 
more  absurd  than  the  other. 

Towards  morning  Ludovic  came  to  his  cell  with  a  pre- 
occupied air,  and  although  he  tried  to  control  his  features, 
his  eager,  shining  eyes  showed  that  he  had  a  great  piece 
of  news  to  tell. 

1  Argus  was  a  prince  of  Argos,  a  town  of  ancient  Greece  (now  Planitza); 
he  had  a  hundred  eyes,  fifty  of  which  were  always  open.  He  was  killed  by 
Mercury,  and  Juno  transferred  his  eyes  to  the  tail  of  her  peacock. 

136 


PICCIOLA.  137 

"What  is  it  ?  "  said  Charney;  "and  what  was  going  on 
upstairs  last  night?" 

"  Oh  !  nothing,  Signer  Conte ;  nothing,  only  we  took  in 
a  fresh  lot  of  prisoners  yesterday,  and  there  are  no  more 
empty  cells.  Yes,"  he  went  on  in  a  tone  bordering  on 
commiseration,  "you  will  have  to  share  the  pleasure  of 
your  courtyard  with  a  fellow  captive ;  but,  never  fear,  we 
have  none  but  good  people  here.  .  .  .  When  I  say  good 
people,"  he  hastily  resumed,  "  I  mean  there  are  no  thieves 
among  them  !  But  stay,  here  's  the  new  inmate  coming 
to  pay  you  a  visit." 

At  this  unexpected  announcement  Charney  sprang  up 
in  surprise,  not  knowing  whether  to  regret  or  to  rejoice 
in  this  change,  when  Girhardi  entered  suddenly. 

Without  a  word  the  two  rushed  together ;  their  clasped 
hands  bore  witness  to  their  joy,  and  their  hearts  met  in  a 
single  glance. 

"Well,  well,"  said  Ludovic  with  a  laugh,  "I  see  that 
the  ice  will  be  soon  broken  "  ;  and  he  left  them  lost  in 
ecstasy. 

After  an  expressive  silence  Charney  asked  :  "  Who  can 
have  united  us  ?  " 

"  My  daughter,  beyond  a  doubt !  Who  else  could  it 
be  ?  Does  not  every  pleasure  that  comes  to  me  come 
from  her?" 

Charney  bowed  his  head  in  confusion,  and  his  hands 
again  grasped  those  of  the  old  man.  Drawing  a  slip  of 
paper  from  his  dressing  case,  he  handed  it  to  him. 

"  Do  you  know  that  writing  ? " 

"It  is  hers!"  cried  Girhardi;  "it  is  my  daughter's 
hand  !  my  Teresa's  hand  !  No,  she  has  not  forgotten  us, 


138  PICCIOLA. 

and  her  promise  is  already  fulfilled,  for  we  are  together. 
But  how  did  you  get  this  note  ? " 

Charney  told  him,  and  then  without  thinking  he  made 
a  motion  to  take  back  the  paper;  but  seeing  Girhardi 
hold  it  in  his  hands  trembling  with  emotion,  read  it 
slowly,  word  by  word,  letter  by  letter,  and  kiss  it  again 
and  again,  he  felt  that  it  no  longer  belonged  to  him, 
and  he  felt  a  vague  sense  of  regret  which  he  could  not 
explain  to  himself. 

The  first  few  moments  passed,  when  they  had  exhausted 
all  their  conjectures  in  regard  to  Teresa,  her  fate,  and  her 
abode,  Girhardi,  surveying  his  host's  apartment  with 
simple  curiosity,  paused  to  read  each  inscription  on  the 
wall. 

The  newcomer  readily  believed  that  it  was  due  to  the 
influence  of  the  plant  that  two  of  these  maxims  had  been 
changed,  and  he  appreciated  the  importance  of  the  part 
that  she  had  played  to  the  prisoner.  He  took  up  a  piece 
of  charcoal  in  his  turn. 

One  of  the  maxims  contained  these  words : 

"  Men  dwell  upon  the  earth  as  later  they  will  lie  be- 
neath its  surface,  side  by  side,  but  with  no  connecting 
link.  To  the  physical  man  this  world  is  a  crowded 
arena,  where  he  is  continually  running  into  his  neigh- 
bor; to  the  spiritual  man  it  is  a  desert." 

He  added : 

"If  he  be  friendless  !" 

Then,  turning  to  his  companion,  he  opened  his  arms  to 
him. 

Still  moved  by  the  thoughts  which  had  stirred  him,  his 
heart  throbbing,  his  eyes  moist,  Charney  fell  upon  the  old 


PICCIOLA.  139 

man's  neck,  and  the  holy  bond  of  friendship  was  sealed 
by  a  long,  close  embrace. 

Mutual  confidences  were  soon  exchanged.  They  loved 
each  other  so  well  already,  although  they  scarcely  knew 
each  other.  Charney  recounted  the  ambitious  tastes  and 
the  vainglorious  follies  of  his  youth.  The  old  man  in 
his  turn  took  up  the  word,  and  confessed  even  the  errors 
of  his  early  life. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

THE  two  prisoners  had  soon  no  secrets  between  them. 
After  rapidly  rehearsing  the  chief  events  of  their  life,  they 
went  over  it  in  detail,  imparting  each  to  the  other  even 
the  slightest  emotions  which  he  had  felt. 

They  talked  of  Teresa  too,  but  at  that  name  Charney 
blushed  and  felt  confused ;  the  old  man  grew  thoughtful 
and  a  brief  silence,  sad  and  solemn,  always  accompanied 
the  memory  of  the  absent  angel. 

Nor  was  Picciola  forgotten  amidst  their  effusions.  The 
two  friends  had  built  a  larger,  more  convenient  bench  close 
beside  her.  Here  they  sat  together  before  the  plant,  and 
they  felt  that  there  was  a  third  party  to  the  conversation. 
They  called  this  bench  the  lecturers  bench,  for  there  the 
teacher  and  his  pupil  sat :  the  teacher  was  the  one  who 
knew  the  least,  but  knew  the  best ;  the  teacher  was  Gir- 
hardi ;  the  pupil  was  Charney ;  and  Picciola  was  the  book. 

Autumn  was  at  hand ;  they  sat  in  their  accustomed 
place ;  Charney,  losing  all  hope  that  Picciola  would  blos- 
som again,  expressed  his  regret  to  his  friend  that  the  last 
flower  should  have  fallen,  and  Girhardi,  to  atone  for  this 
loss,  detailed  to  him  the  general  features  of  the  fructifica- 
tion of  plants. 

He  told  him  how  water  plants,  the  ornament  of  rivulets 
and  lakes,  assume  a  form  for  their  seeds  which  permits 
them  to  float  on  the  water,  so  that  they  may  take  root  on 
the  slopes  of  the  river  bank  or  on  either  shore;  how, 
when  their  weight  draws  them  down,  it  is  in  order  that 

140 


PICCIOLA.  141 

they  may  grow  in  the  bed  of  the  stream  or  the  rich  soil 
of  the  swamp ;  how,  failing  seeds,  they  multiply  by  means 
of  roots  and  cuttings.  All  these  and  many  other  won- 
ders of  the  vegetable  world  he  unfolded  to  Charney's 
attentive  ear. 

"What!"  cried  Charney,  "such  things  exist,  and  the 
majority  of  men  do  not  condescend  to  turn  their  gaze 
that  way ! " 

This  was  but  one  of  the  old  man's  lessons. 

"My  friend,"  said  Charney  as  they  sat  together  on 
their  bench,  "  can  the  insects  which  you  have  made  your 
favorite  study,  show  you  as  many  marvels  as  Picciola  has 
revealed  to  me  ?  " 

"Quite  as  many,"  was  the  reply.  "Believe  me,  you 
will  never  fully  appreciate  your  Picciola  until  you  learn 
to  know  those  lively  little  creatures  which  buzz  and  hum 
about  her.  Then  only  you  will  see  the  varied  relations, 
the  secret  laws  which  connect  the  insect  and  the  plant, 
and  link  both  plant  and  insect  with  the  rest  of  the  world  ; 
for  all  are  born  of  the  same  Will,  all  are  governed  by  the 
same  Intelligence !  " 

As  Girhardi  spoke  he  suddenly  paused,  his  eyes  fixed 
on  Picciola. 

A  gay-colored  butterfly  rested  on  one  of  her  branches, 
its  wings  quivering  with  a  peculiar  motion. 

"What  is  it,  friend?" 

"  I  think,"  said  the  master,  "  that  Picciola  will  help  me 
to  answer  your  first  question.  Watch  that  butterfly. 
While  I  speak  it  has  compelled  your  plant  to  seal  a  com- 
pact. Yes,  for  it  has  deposited  the  hope  of  its  posterity 
upon  one  of  her  branches." 


142  PICCIOLA. 

Charney  bent  to  verify  the  statement.  The  butterfly 
flew  off,  leaving  its  eggs  covered  with  a  sticky  substance 
which  bound  them  securely  to  the  bark. 

"Well!"  added  Girhardi,  "was  it  by  chance,  by  mere 
accident,  that  the  butterfly  confided  her  precious  deposit 
to  Picciola's  care  ?  Beware  of  the  thought !  Nature 
reserves  a  particular  species  of  plant  for  each  kind  of 
insect.  Every  plant  has  its  guest  to  feed  and  lodge. 
Now,  see  how  striking  that  butterfly's  action  is.  It  was 
first  a  caterpillar,  and  while  a  caterpillar  it  fed  upon  the 
substance  of  a  plant  like  this ;  later  on  it  went  through 
its  various  changes ;  faithless  to  its  first  affections,  it 
roved  from  flower  to  flower.  But  when  the  time  came  to 
lay  its  eggs,  this  little  creature,  that  never  knew  a  mother, 
and  will  never  see  its  children  (for  its  work  is  done  and  it 
must  die),  untaught  by  experience,  therefore,  it  confides  its 
eggs  to  a  plant  like  that  upon  which  it  fed  itself  in  another 
form  and  at  a  different  season.  It  knows  that  tiny  cater- 
pillars will  come  forth  from  its  eggs,  and  for  them  it  forgets 
its  roving  butterfly  habits.  Who  taught  it  these  things  ? 
Who  endowed  it  with  memory,  reason,  and  power  to  recog- 
nize that  plant  whose  leaves  are  now  quite  unlike  what 
they  were  in  the  spring  ?  The  wisest  eyes  may  be  mistaken* 
in  such  matters  ;  but  the  insect  never  makes  a  mistake  !  " 

Charney  was  about  to  express  his  surprise. 

"  Oh  !  this  is  not  all,"  Girhardi  broke  in.  "  Look  at  the 
branch  which  it  has  chosen.  It  is  one  of  the  oldest  and 
strongest ;  for  the  new  shoots,  weak  and  frail,  might  be 
frozen  or  broken  by  the  blasts  of  winter.  This,  too,  the 
little  creature  knows.  Once  more  I  ask  you,  who  taught 
it  this?" 


PICCIOLA.  143 

Charney  was  confounded. 

"  Forgive  me/'  he  said  ;  "  I  fear  you  may  be  carried 
away  by  some  system,  by  some  prejudice." 

"  Silence,  sceptic,"  cried  the  old  man  with  one  of  his 
subtle  smiles.  "  Perhaps  you  will  believe  your  own  eyes  ! 
Mark  me  well,  Picciola  will  play  her  part  in  her  turn ! 
Next  spring  we  can  verify  the  miracle  together,"  he  said, 
restraining  a  sigh  at  the  thought  of  his  daughter.  "  Then, 
when  Picciola's  first  leaves  come  forth,  the  little  worms  in 
the  eggs  will  break  their  shells.  No  doubt  you  know  that 
the  buds  of  various  shrubs  do  not  all  open  at  the  same 
time ;  the  same  is  the  case  with  the  eggs  of  the  various 
species  of  butterflies ;  but  here  a  law  of  unity  governs  the 
growth  of  plant  and  insect  alike.  If  the  worms  came  out 
before  the  leaves,  they  would  have  nothing  to  eat ;  if  the 
leaves  came  forward  before  the  baby  caterpillars,  the  latter 
would  be  unable  to  devour  them  with  their  delicate  man- 
dibles. This  could  never  be ;  Nature  never  errs  !  Every 
plant  in  its  progress  follows  the  development  of  the  insect 
which  it  is  destined  to  feed  ;  the  one  opens  her  buds 
when  the  eggs  of  the  other  open ;  and  having  grown  and 
strengthened  together,  they  unfold  their  flowers  and  their 
wings  together ! " 

"  Picciola !  Picciola  !  "  whispered  Charney,  "  you  did  not 
tell  me  all!" 

Thus  each  day  brought  its  own  lesson  ;  at  night  the 
captives  returned,  each  to  his  own  cell,  to  await  the  com- 
ing of  sleep  or  to  think,  unknown  to  each  other,  of  one 
and  the  same  object  —  of  the  old  man's  daughter.  What 
had  befallen  her  since  she  was  exiled  from  her  father'  § 
prison  I 


144  PICCIOLA. 

Teresa  had  first  followed  the  Emperor  to  Milan  ;  but 
there  she  soon  found  by  experience  that  it  is  some- 
times easier  to  traverse  an  army  than  an  antechamber. 
However,  Girhardi's  friends,  spurred  on  by  her,  renewed 
their  efforts,  promised  to  obtain  his  pardon  erelong;  and 
Teresa,  more  at  ease,  returned  to  Turin,  where  a  relative 
had  offered  her  a  home. 

This  relative's  husband  was  city  librarian.  To  him 
Menou  intrusted  the  choice  of  books  to  be  sent  to  Fenes- 
trella.  The  nature  of  these  books  led  Teresa  to  guess 
for  whom  they  were  intended.  Hence  the  insertion  of 
that  little  note  whose  mystical  form  could  not  injure 
either  her  father  or  his  friend. 

At  that  time  she  did  not  know  that  the  two  were 
separated ;  and  when  the  news  reached  her  through  the 
messenger  who  carried  the  books,  alarmed  at  the  results 
of  total  solitude  upon  the  old  man,  her  heart  was  full  of 
one  desire  only  —  the  reunion  of  the  two  captives ! 

Some  time  later,  being  presented  to  the  wife  of  General 
Menou,  she  thanked  her  and  expressed  her  deep  grati- 
tude, when  the  old  general,  touched  by  her  filial  devotion, 
departed  for  an  instant  from  his  usual  harshness,  took 
her  hand  affectionately  in  his,  and  said : 

"  Come  to  see  me  now  and  then,  or  rather  come  to  see 
my  wife.  Perhaps  within  a  month  she  may  have  some 
good  news  for  you!" 

Teresa  supposed  that  she  was  to  be  allowed  to  return 
to  Fenestrella,  to  spend  part  of  her  time  with  her  father; 
she  threw  herself  at  the  general's  feet  and  thanked  him 
again  and  again,  her  face  radiant  with  joy ! 


CHAPTER   V. 

ON  a  fine  sunny  day  in  October,  one  of  those  days 
which  remind  one  of  spring,  Girhardi  and  Charney  were 
seated  on  their  bench.  Both  silent  and  thoughtful,  they 
seemed  to  pay  no  heed  each  to  the  other,  but  the  Count's 
eye,  filled  with  interest  and  anxiety,  turned  ever  and  anon 
to  his  companion,  wholly  absorbed  in  deep  revery.  Gir- 
hardi's  features  seldom  wore  the  look  of  gloom.  Charney 
might  well  mistake  its  cause. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  exclaimed,  suddenly  breaking  the  long 
silence  ;  "  captivity  is  horrible !  horrible !  when  it  is  un- 
deserved !  To  live  apart  from  the  one  we  love  can  scarcely 
be  called  living  !  " 

Girhardi  looked  up,  and  in  his  turn  casting  off  his  pen- 
sive mood  : 

"  Separation  is  the  great  trial  of  life ;  is  it  not,  my 
friend?" 

"Your  friend!"  replied  the  Count;  "can  you  indeed 
call  me  your  friend  ?  Was  it  not  I  who  parted  you  from 
her  ?  Can  you  ever  forget  it  ?  Ah  !  do  not  deny  it ;  you 
were  thinking  of  your  daughter,  and  as  you  thought  of 
her  you  must  needs  turn  from  me  !  I  understand  that 
when  such  thoughts  come  to  you,  the  sight  of  me  must 
be  hateful  to  you !  " 

"You  are  strangely  mistaken  as  to  the  cause  of  my 
meditation,"  said  the  old  man.  "  Perhaps  my  thoughts  of 
my  daughter  were  never  more  soothing  than  to-day,  for 
she  has  written  to  me,  and  I  have  her  letter ! " 

'45 


146  PICCIOLA. 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  She  has  written  to  you  ?  And  it  was 
allowed ! " 

Charney  moved  towards  the  happy  father  with  an  im- 
pulse of  delight  at  once  restrained  :  "  But  did  her  letter 
bring  you  bad  news?'* 

"Not  at  all;  ...    on  the  contrary." 

"Then  why  so  sad?" 

"Alas  !  How  can  I  tell,  my  friend  ?  Man  is  so  consti- 
tuted. Regret  is  always  mingled  with  our  fairest  hopes ! 
Our  earthly  pleasures  always  cast  their  shadow  before 
them,  and  our  eye  falls  first  upon  that  shadow!  You 
spoke  of  separation  !  .  .  .  here,  take  this  letter ;  read  it 
and  you  will  guess  why  this  morning  a  sense  of  sadness 
overcame  me  as  I  sat  beside  you." 

Charney  took  the  letter  and  for  some  time  held  it  un- 
opened. His  eyes  upon  Girhardi,  he  seemed  trying  to 
read  its  contents  in  his  dear  companion's  face;  then  he 
studied  the  address  and  was  pleasantly  stirred  by  the 
well-known  hand.  At  last,  unfolding  the  sheet,  he  tried 
to  read  it  aloud ;  but  his  voice  shook,  the  words  parched 
his  lips  as  he  uttered  them ;  he  stopped  short,  and  finished 
the  letter  to  himself.  It  read  as  follows : 

"  DEAR  FATHER,  — 

"  Kiss  the  letter  which  you  now  hold  in  your  hands 
over  and  over ;  I  have  kissed  it  again  and  again,  and  it 
contains  a  whole  harvest  of  kisses  for  you  \ " 

"  Oh !  be  sure  I  did  so,"  murmured  Girhardi.  .  .  . 
"Dear  girl!" 

Charney  went  on  : 

"  It  is  a  great  delight  to  you,  as  well  a,s  to  me,  i$  it;  not,. 


PICCIOLA.  147 

that  we  are  at  last  allowed  to  correspond  ?  We  must  be 
eternally  grateful  to  General  Menou.  For  it  is  he  who 
has  put  an  end  to  the  silence  which  parted  us  even  more 
effectually  than  distance.  Blessings  on  his  head  !  Hence- 
forth our  thoughts  at  least  may  meet ;  I  shall  tell  you  my 
hopes  and  they  will  cheer  and  comfort  you;  you  will  tell 
me  your  griefs,  and  while  I  weep  for  them  I  shall  feel 
that  I  weep  with  you  !  But,  dear  father,  what  if  a  greater 
favor  still  were  in  store  for  us  ?  .  .  .  Oh  !  I  implore  you, 
lay  down  this  letter  for  a  few  moments  and,  before  you 
read  farther,  prepare  your  soul  for  the  sudden  joys  which 
I  have  yet  to  tell  you !  .  .  .  Father,  what  if  I  were  per- 
mitted to  rejoin  you !  ...  to  see  you  from  time  to  time,  to 
hear  your  voice,  to  watch  over  you !  For  two  years  those 
pleasures  were  all  I  asked,  and  captivity  appeared  a  slight 
thing  to  you  !  Well !  if  my  hope  be  realized,  ...  I  shall 
soon  return  to  that  prison  from  which  I  was  exiled ! " 

"She  is  coming  back  !    What !  here  !    To  be  with  you  ?" 
Charney  broke  in  with  a  rapturous  cry. 
"  Read,  read,'*  was  the  sad  reply. 
Charney  re-read  the  last  sentence  and  continued : 
"  I  shall  soon  return  to  that  prison  from  which  I  vjas 
exiled !  .  .  .     You  are  happy  now,  very  happy,  I  know. 
Dwell  a  little  longer  upon    that   comforting   idea.  .   .   . 
Your  daughter,  your  Teresa,  entreats  you !  do  not  be  too 
eager  to  reach  the  end  of  this  letter.     Too  great  an  emo- 
tion is  sometimes  dangerous !     Is  not  what  I  have  told 
you  enough  ?     Had  an  angel  come  down  from  heaven  to 
grant  your  wishes,  you  would  not  have  ventured  to  ask 
for  more.  ...     I,  more  exacting  perhaps,  before  he  took 
his  flight,  should  plead  with  him  for  your  liberty,  for  your 


148  PICCIOLA. 

complete  delivery !  At  your  age  it  is  so  hard  to  be 
deprived  of  the  sight  of  your  native  land !  The  banks  of 
the  Doria  are  so  fair,  and  the  trees  planted  in  your  garden 
by  my  dead  mother  and  my  poor  brother  have  grown  so 
much !  There  their  memory  is  more  vivid  than  else- 
.  where  !  Then  you  must  regret  your  friends,  your  friends 
whose  generous  efforts  have  done  so  much  to  aid  my 
feeble  attempts.  .  .  .  Oh !  father,  father,  the  pen  burns 
my  ringers ;  my  secret  will  escape.  It  has  already  es- 
caped, no  doubt !  I  beseech  you,  be  strong,  for  happi- 
ness is  at  hand !  In  a  few  days  I  shall  join  you,  not  alone 
to  soothe  your  captivity  but  to  put  an  end  to  it !  Not  to 
spend  a  few  hours  with  you  within  prison  walls,  but  to 
lead  you  forth  free  and  unabashed !  Yes,  unabashed ! 
You  well  may  be  unabashed ;  for  your  faithful  Delarue 
and  Cotenna  have  obtained,  not  your  pardon,  but  justice, 
full  reparation ! 

"Farewell,  dearest  father;  oh  !  how  I  love  you,  and  how 

happylam!  TERESA." 

There  was  not  a  word,  a  single  word  of  remembrance  for 
Charney  in  the  letter.  He  anxiously  sought  for  one  such 
word  as  he  read ;  and  yet,  in  spite  of  his  disappointment 
at  not  finding  it,  his  first  outburst  was  one  of  rapture. 

"  You  will  be  free  !  "  he  cried ;  "  and  you  can  lie  in  the 
shade  of  green  trees  and  see  the  sun  rise ! " 

ff  Yes,"  said  the  old  man,  "I. shall ;  .  .  .  I  shall  leave  you  ! 
And  this  is  the  cloud  which  darkens  my  happiness  and 
almost  hides  it !  " 

"What  does  that  matter?"  rejoined  Charney,  proving 
by  the  vehemence  of  his  transports  and  his  generous 


PICCIOLA.  149 

forgetfulness  of  self  how  worthy  he  had  become  to  under- 
stand what  friendship  was  :  "  You  will  be  restored  to  her 
at  last !  She  will  cease  to  suffer  for  my  fault ;  you  will 
be  happy,  and  I  shall  no  longer  feel  this  weight  upon  my 
soul !  For  the  short  space  yet  left  us  to  talk  together  we 
can  at  least  talk  of  her  !  " 

The  last  words  were  uttered  in  the  arms  of  his  old 
friend ! 


CHAPTER   VI. 

CHARNEY'S  blood  now  flowed  more  calmly ;  his  thoughts 
were  gentler,  more  soothing,  more  affectionate.  Like  the 
wise  Piedmontese,  he  felt  a  vague  desire  to  open  his  heart 
to  affection.  He  dreamed  with  ecstasy  of  the  beings 
whom,  by  a  tie  of  gratitude  or  friendship,  he  might  bind 
to  him. 

Among  them  Josephine,  Girhardi,  and  Ludovic  first 
presented  themselves  to  people  his  celestial  world ;  then 
two  feminine  shades  appeared  at  either  end  of  that  rain- 
bow of  love  which  came  after  the  storm.  One  of  these 
shadows  was  the  fairy  of  his  dreams,  Picciola  the  maiden, 
the  fair  image  born  of  the  perfumes  of  his  flower;  the 
other  the  angel  of  his  prison,  his  second  providence, 
Teresa  Girhardi. 

By  a  strange  contrast  the  former,  who  only  existed  for 
him  as  an  ideal  being,  was  yet  the  only  one  to  stand  out 
distinctly  in  his  memory.  He  could  see  her  frown  slightly, 
her  eye  brighten,  her  mouth  smile.  Such  as  he  saw  her 
in  a  vision,  such  he  could  always  see  her.  As  for  Teresa, 
never  having  noticed  her  particularly,  under  what  form 
could  he  portray  her  ?  Her  face  was  veiled ;  and  if  he 
strove  to  lift  the  veil,  it  was  still  Picciola's  face  which 
appeared  before  him  —  Picciola,  suddenly  made  manifold, 
do  what  he  would,  as  if  to  receive  the  homage  meant  for 
her  rival. 

One  morning  the  prisoner,  wide  awake,  thought  him- 
self the  victim  of  this  singular  delusion. 

150 


PICCIOLA.  LSI 

Day  was  breaking  ;  he  had  already  dressed  and  was 
thinking  of  Girhardi.  The  latter,  feeling  that  his  delivery 
was  at  hand,  had  accompanied  his  good-night  with  such 
touching  expressions  of  regret  that  the  Count  could  not 
sleep  all  night,  the  idea  of  the  parting  pained  him  so  much. 
As  he  paced  his  cell  he  mechanically  turned  his  eyes 
towards  the  bench,  where,  the  night  before,  he  had  talked 
with  the  father,  of  the  daughter,  when  in  the  prison  yard, 
upon  that  self-same  bench,  through  a  thin  autumn  mist, 
he  suddenly  saw  a  young  woman  seated.  She  was  alone 
and,  in  a  graceful  attitude,  seemed  to  be  gazing  at  the 
plant. 

Charney  instantly  thought  of  Teresa,  of  her  arrival. 

"It  is  she!"  he  said  to  himself;  "and  I  shall  see  her 
for  a  moment,  never  to  see  her  again !  and  my  old  friend 
will  go  with  her  !  " 

As  he  spoke  the  young  woman  turned  her  head  his 
way ;  and  the  face  which  he  then  saw  was  once  more, 
again  and  always,  that  of  Picciola ! 

He  put  his  hand  to  his  head  in  amazement,  rubbed  his 
eyes,  touched  his  clothes,  the  cold  bars  of  his  window,  to 
assure  himself  that  it  was  now  no  dream. 

The  young  woman  rose,  moved  towards  him,  and,  smiling 
and  blushing,  greeted  him  with  a  shy  bow.  Charney 
returned  neither  the  bow  nor  the  smile;  he  stared  at  the 
graceful  figure  as  it  moved  through  the  mist ;  it  was 
indeed  the  same  that  he  had  seen  at  the  entertainments 
given  him  by  Picciola ;  those  were  the  features  which 
haunted  his  dreams  and  his  waking  thoughts.  Believing 
himself  a  prey  to  feverish  delirium,  he  threw  himself  on 
his  bed  to  recover  his  senses. 


152  PICCIOLA. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  door  opened  and  Ludovic 
entered. 

"  Okimt!  ohimt!1  good  and  bad  news  both,  Signer 
Conte!"  he  exclaimed;  "one  of  my  birds  is  about  to  fly 
away,  not  over  the  walls,  but  out  at  the  door.  So  much 
the  better  for  him,  so  much  the  worse  for  you  !  " 

"  What !  is  it  to  be  to-day  then  ?  " 

"I  think  not,  Signer  Conte.  But  it  can't  be  long,  for 
the  paper  has  been  signed  at  Paris,  I  hear,  and  it  is  on  its 
way  to  Turin.  At  least  so  \bzgiovanna*  told  her  father 
just  now." 

"  What !  "  cried  Charney,  sitting  up,  "  has  she  come  ?  Is 
she  here  ? " 

"  She  reached  Fenestrella  last  night  with  a  permit,  in 
regular  form,  to  enter.  Unfortunately,  the  rules  do  not 
allow  of  my  lowering  the  drawbridge  for  a  woman  at  so 
late  an  hour ;  she  had  to  put  off  her  visit  till  to-day.  I 
knew  she  was  here;  but  cap  de  Dious !  I  took  care  not 
to  let  the  poor  old  fellow  know ;  he  would  not  have  slept 
a  wink,  and  the  time  would  have  seemed  unending,  if  he 
had  known  that  his  daughter  was  so  near  him  !  She  was 
up  this  morning  before  the  sun  and  came  here  at  dawn, 
to  wait  in  all  the  fog  at  the  gates  of  the  fortress,  good 
creature  that  she  is !  " 

"But,"  broke  in  Charney,  confused  and  amazed,  "did 
she  not  spend  some  time  in  the  courtyard  seated  on  that 
bench?" 

And  he  sprang  to  the  window,  looked  eagerly  into  the 
court,  and  again  turning  to  Ludovic  : 

w  She  is  no  longer  there  !  "  he  said. 

i  Alas  !  alas  !  2  Young  lady. 


PICCIOLA.  153 

"Of  course  she  is  not  there  now,  but  she  was  there," 
was  the  reply.  "  Yes,  she  waited  there  while  I  went  up 
to  prepare  the  good  man  for  her  visit,  lest  he  should  die 
of  joy.  Joy,  it  seems,  is  like  strong  drink ;  a  little  drop 
now  and  again  is  excellent,  but  it  is  bad  to  empty  the 
bottle  at  a  single  draught.  Now  they  are  together,  very 
happy,  both  of  them  ;  and  when  I  saw  them  so  happy,  per 
Bacco,  I  thought  of  you,  Signer  Conte>  of  you,  who  will 
soon  be  left  alone ;  and  I  came  in  to  remind  you  that  you 
will  still  have  Ludovic  and  Picciola  too.  She  is  beginning 
to  lose  her  leaves,  but  that  is  owing  to  the  season ;  you 
must  not  despise  her  for  that." 

And  he  left  the  room  without  waiting  for  Charney's 
answer. 

The  latter,  not  yet  recovered  from  his  surprise  and 
emotion,  tried  to  explain  his  strange  vision ;  he  at  last 
began  to  think  that  the  sweet  features  worn  by  Picciola 
the  maiden  might  really  have  been  only  those  of  Teresa, 
once  seen  by  him  at  the  grated  window,  and  her  image 
doubtless  unconsciously  repeated  in  his  dreams. 

As  he  reasoned  thus,  the  hum  of  voices  reached  his  ear  ; 
he  heard  upon  the  stairs,  together  with  the  familiar  steps 
of  the  old  man,  a  light  tread  which  hardly  touched  the 
stone.  The  sounds  soon  stopped  at  his  door.  He  trem- 
bled ;  but  Girhardi  alone  appeared. 

"She  is  here,"  he  said,  "and  she  is  waiting  for  us 
beside  the  plant." 

Charney  silently  followed  him,  unable  to  utter  a  word, 
his  heart  filled  with  uneasiness  rather  than  with  pleasure. 

Was  it  embarrassment  at  appearing  before  the  woman 
to  whom  he  owed  everything,  and  whom  he  could  never 


154  PICCIOLA. 

hope  to  repay  ?  Did  he  remember  how  he  had  received 
her  bow  and  smile  that  very  morning?  Now  that  the 
parting  was  so  near,  did  his  courage  and  his  resignation 
fail  him  ? 

Whether  owing  to  these  causes  or  to  many  others  as 
well,  when  he  stood  before  her  no  one  would  have  recog- 
nized the  brilliant  Count  de  Charney  by  his  manners  and 
his  language ;  the  polished  ease  of  the  man  of  the  world, 
the  composure  of  the  philosopher  gave  way  to  a  stammer- 
ing voice  and  awkward  mien,  to  which  no  doubt  were  due 
the  coldness  and  reserve  shown  by  Teresa. 

Notwithstanding  all  Girhardi's  efforts  to  establish 
friendly  relations  between  his  daughter  and  his  fellow 
captive,  the  conversation  at  first  turned  only  upon  com- 
monplaces. Recovering  from  his  first  confusion,  Charney 
read  nothing  but  indifference  on  Teresa's  calm  features, 
and  readily  persuaded  himself  that  in  rendering  him  such 
service  she  had  merely  obeyed  the  dictates  of  her  adven- 
turous nature  or  the  orders  of  her  father. 

He  almost  regretted  seeing  her ;  for  should  he  ever 
regain  his  former  delight  in  thinking  of  her? 

As  they  all  three  sat  on  the  bench,  Girhardi,  absorbed 
in  gazing  at  his  daughter,  and  Charney,  uttering  a  few 
cold  and  broken  phrases,  Teresa  made  a  motion  towards 
her  father,  and  a  large  locket,  hanging  from  her  neck  and 
hidden  in  the  folds  of  her  dress,  fell  out.  Charney  could 
not  help  seeing  in  it,  on  one  side  the  white  hair  of  an  old 
man,  on  the  other  a  faded  flower,  carefully  preserved 
under  the  glass.  It  was  the  flower  which  he  sent  her  by 
Ludovic. 

What !  she  had  kept  that  flower,  preserved,  placed  it 


PICCIOLA.  155 

as  a  precious  relic  with  the  hair  of  her  idolized  father ! 
Picciola's  flower  no  longer  gleamed  from  the  maiden's 
hair ;  it  rested  on  her  heart ! 

This  sight  completely  changed  Charney's  feelings. 

He  again  began  to  consider  Teresa,  as  if  she  had  been 
transformed  before  his  eyes,  and  he  hoped  to  discover  in 
her  that  which  had  not  previously  appeared.  Indeed,  her 
face,  turned  to  the  old  man,  was  radiant  with  a  double 
expression  of  tenderness  and  serenity ;  she  was  beautiful, 
as  Raphael's  Madonnas  are  beautiful,  as  pure  and  loving 
souls  are  beautiful !  He  was  lost  in  admiration  !  It  was 
so  long  since  he  had  seen  a  human  face  so  resplendent 
with  the  radiance  of  youth,  beauty,  and  goodness !  After 
gazing  long  at  the  lovely  girl,  his  eyes  again  turned  eagerly 
to  the  locket. 

"Then  you  did  not  scorn  my  poor  gift  ?"  he  murmured. 

Low  as  was  his  whisper,  Teresa  turned  quickly  towards 
him ;  her  first  impulse  was  to  replace  the  trinket ;  but,  in 
her  turn,  she  studied  the  change  which  had  taken  place 
in  the  Count's  face,  and  both  blushed  at  once. 

"What  is  the  matter,  my  child?"  asked  Girhardi,  see- 
ing her  confusion. 

"  Nothing,"  said  she ;  and  at  once  correcting  herself, 
as  if  she  feared  to  deny  even  to  herself  a  pure  and  honor- 
able emotion:  "We  were  speaking  of  this  locket.  .  .  . 
Look,  father,  this  is  your  hair."  Then,  turning  to  Char- 
ney :  "  See,  sir,  this  is  the  flower  which  you  sent  me,  and 
which  I  have  kept,  .  .  .  which  I  shall  always  keep ! " 

There  was  such  frankness  and  modesty  in  her  words,  in 
her  tone,  in  the  instinct  which  led  her  to  address  her 
explanation  to  her  father  as  well  as  to  the  stranger,  that 


156  PICCIOLA. 

Charney  felt  a  thrill  of  rapture  such  as  he  had  never  before 
experienced. 

The  rest  of  the  day  was  spent  in  the  effusions  of  a 
friendship  which  seemed  to  grow  with  every  moment  that 
passed. 

Charney  and  Teresa  had  never  before  spoken  to  each 
other ;  but  they  had  thought  of  each  other  so  much,  and 
so  few  hours  were  yet  left  to  them  !  Accordingly,  when 
Charney,  out  of  good  breeding,  offered  to  leave  them  lest 
the  presence  of  a  stranger  might  annoy  them,  Teresa 
exclaimed : 

"Why  should  you  leave  us  ? "  holding  him  by  a  look, 
while  Girhardi  detained  him  by  a  gesture.  "  You  are  no 
stranger  to  my  father  ...  or  to  me!"  she  added  in  an 
enchanting  tone  of  reproach. 

To  show  him  how  little  his  presence  disturbed  them, 
she  began  to  tell  all  that  had  happened  since  she  left  Fen- 
estrella,  and  what  means  she  had  taken  to  reunite  the  two 
prisoners.  When  her  story  was  ended  she  begged  Char- 
ney to  begin  his  tale,  and  to  tell  her  how  he  spent  his 
days  and  of  his  tasks  for  Picciola. 

Girhardi,  seated  between  the  two,  holding  in  one  hand 
the  hand  of  the  daughter  just  restored  to  him,  and  in  the 
other  that  of  the  friend  he  was  about  to  leave,  listened, 
and  looked  at  each  in  turn  with  a  mixture  of  joy  and 
sorrow.  But  now  and  then  the  old  man's  hands  met,  and 
by  the  same  movement  those  of  Charney  and  Teresa. 
Then  the  young  people,  agitated  and  embarrassed,  would 
cease  talking.  At  last  the  young  girl,  without  any  appear- 
ance of  prudery  or  affectation,  gently  freed  her  hand,  and 
laying  it  on  her  father's  shoulder,  and  resting  her  head 


PICCIOLA.  157 

on  it  in  a  graceful  attitude,  turned,  smiling,  to  Charney 
as  if  to  beg  him  to  go  on. 

Encouraged,  carried  away  by  so  much  favor  and  free- 
dom from  restraint,  he  ventured  to  relate  his  visions  of 
his  plant.  As  I  have  said,  they  were  the  great  events  of 
his  life  during  his  solitude.  He  described  the  enchant- 
ing maiden  in  whom  Picciola  was  personified,  and  as  he 
eagerly,  lovingly  sketched  her  likeness,  Teresa's  face  grad- 
ually lost  its  smile  and  she  sighed  as  she  listened. 

The  narrator  took  care  not  to  mention  the  original  of 
the  sweet  image ;  but  as  he  closed  the  story  and  the  woes 
of  his  plant,  he  recalled  the  instant  when,  by  the  colonel's 
order,  the  dying  Picciola  was  about  to  be  torn  from  the 
earth  before  his  very  eyes. 

"  Poor  Picciola !  "  exclaimed  Teresa  with  tears  in  her 
eyes ;  "  oh !  you  belong  to  me  too,  dear  little  creature ! 
for  I  had  a  share  in  your  rescue." 

And  Charney,  overwhelmed  with  joy,  thanked  her  in 
his  heart  for  this  adoption,  which  established  a  sacred 
bond  between  them. 


CHAPTER    VII. 

CHARNEY  would  gladly  and  forever  have  renounced  free- 
dom, fortune,  and  society  if  his  days  might  be  passed  like 
this  one,  in  a  prison  with  Teresa  and  her  father.  He 
loved  this  girl  as  he  had  never  loved  before.  This  emotion, 
hitherto  a  stranger  to  his  soul,  now  entered  there  at  once 
violent  and  sweet,  bitter  and  savory,  like  some  sour  fruit 
which  perfumes  whilst  it  makes  the  lips  smart.  He  felt 
an  unknown  ecstasy,  outbursts  of  affection  which  embraced 
God,  humanity,  and  the  whole  universe. 

Next  day  the  three  were  again  seated  in  the  courtyard 
beside  the  plant,  —  the  two  friends  on  the  bench,  Teresa 
facing  them,  on  a  chair  which  Ludovic  had  considerately 
provided. 

She  was  busy  with  needlework,  and  with  a  lively  expres- 
sion of  satisfaction,  following  the  motion  of  her  needle 
with  her  head,  lifting  her  eyes  as  she  raised  her  hand,  she 
smiled  now  at  her  father  and  now  at  Charney,  interrupt- 
ing their  grave  discourse  with  an  occasional  frivolous 
remark.  Then  she  rose,  and  regardless  of  the  fact  that 
she  was  breaking  in  upon  their  conversation,  she  clasped 
her  father  in  her  arms  and  kissed  him. 

The  conversation,  thus  cut  short,  was  not  resumed. 
Charney  sank  into  a  deep  revery. 

" Does  Teresa  love  him?  "  He  dreads  to  think  so  ;  he 
shudders  to  doubt  it ! 

She  has  kept  the  flower  which  he  gave  her,  and  has 
promised  to  keep  it  forever  ;  she  was  confused  when  their 

158 


PICCIOLA.  159 

hands  met  the  day  before  in  the  old  man's  lap ;  she  sighed 
at  the  story  of  his  visions ;  but  the  words  which  she  ut- 
tered in  so  tender  a  voice  were  spoken  in  her  father's 
presence.  How  shall  he  interpret  all  these  charming 
sighs  ;  as  proof  of  pity,  interest,  or  devotion?  Did  she 
not  give  proofs  of  these  before  that  interview,  when  their 
eyes  had  never  met,  when  as  yet  they  had  never  exchanged 
a  word  ?  Mad  fool !  Mad  fool !  To  dream  that  he  has 
so  soon  found  a  place  in  that  heart  wholly  occupied  by 
filial  affection ! 

What  matter?  He  loves  her;  he  will  always  love  her, 
and  will  take  this  angelic  reality  in  place  of  the  ideal 
image  which  no  longer  satisfies  him. 

He  will  keep  his  love  hidden ;  to  try  to  win  a  return 
would  be  a  crime.  Why  should  he  poison  her  happy 
future  ?  Are  they  not  fated  to  dwell  apart?  She  joyous 
and  free  in  a  world  where  erelong  she  will  choose  a  hus- 
band ;  he  alone  in  his  prison,  alone  with  Picciola  and  the 
memory  of  a  brief  moment ! 

His  mind  is  made  up  ;  from  this  day,  from  this  moment, 
he  will  affect  indifference  to  Teresa,  or  at  least  he  will 
cloak  himself  in  a  false  semblance  of  calm,  quiet  friend- 
ship. Woe  to  him,  woe  to  them  both,  if  she  should  love 
him ! 

Full  of  these  fine  schemes,  his  ear  was  caught  by  a  few 
sentences  interchanged  by  Girhardi  and  his  daughter.  The 
old  man  asserted  that  the  year  would  probably  end  before 
his  captivity. 

"If  you  really  think  so,"  said  his  daughter,  ?c  I  will 
return  to  Turin  to-morrow  to  hasten  the  fulfilment  of  the 
promises  which  your  friends  made  me." 


160  PZCCWLA. 

"Why  should  we  be  in  such  haste?"  replied  Girhardi. 

"  What !  Do  you  prefer  your  dark,  narrow  cell  and  this 
ugly  courtyard  to  your  own  home  and  your  lovely  gar- 
dens?" 

Teresa's  apparent  impatience  to  leave  Fenestrella  should 
have  pleased  Charney  as  showing  that  she  did  not  love 
him,  and  that  the  danger  which  he  dreaded  for  her  was 
by  no  means  imminent ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  he  was  so 
disturbed  as  quite  to  forget  the  part  he  intended  to  play. 
He  could  not  help  showing  his  distress ;  but  Teresa  took 
no  other  notice  of  this  than  to  tease  him  about  his  silence 
and  his  sulky  look ;  and  she  again  began  to  argue  that,  if 
the  pardon  were  delayed  much  longer,  she  must  go  at 
once  to  General  Menou ;  if  need  be,  to  Paris,  to  the 
Emperor  ! 

She,  usually  so  yielding,  so  reserved,  seemed  sud- 
denly governed  by  an  incomprehensible  desire  to  laugh 
and  chatter. 

"What  ails  you  to-day?"  asked  her  father,  amazed  to 
see  her  make  so  merry  in  the  presence  of  the  poor  cap- 
tive whom  they  were  soon  to  leave  behind  them. 

Charney  did  not  know  what  to  think  of  her. 

The  truth  is  that  Teresa,  too,  had  followed  the  same 
train  of  thought  as  Charney.  She  did  not  feel  the  ap- 
proach of  love ;  she  knew  that  it  had  already  filled  her 
soul  long  since.  Like  Charney,  she  was  ready  to  accept 
it  for  herself,  with  all  its  risks  and  dangers ;  but,  like  him 
also,  she  dreaded  it  for  another  !  And  the  joy  of  loving, 
the  fear  lest  she  should  be  loved,  caused  these  apparent 
contradictions  and  the  flow  of  words  with  which  she  tried 
to  still  her  heart. 


PICCIOLA,  161 

Soon  all  these  efforts,  all  this  attempt  to  hide  their  true 
feelings,  came  to  an  end  on  both  sides.  Listening  to 
Girhardi,  as  he  told  them  how  often  he  had  known  pris- 
oners whose  pardon  had  been  publicly  announced,  to  wait 
for  months  before  they  were  set  free,  they  were  only  too 
happy  to  yield  to  his  persuasions  ;  they  would  gladly  have 
learned  that  henceforth  and  forever  this  prison  was  to  be 
their  abode ;  that  living  there  with  their  guardian  angel, 
the  only  thing  the  prisoners  had  to  fear  was  that  one  of 
them  might  be  set  free ! 

A  faint  sunbeam  lit  up  Teresa's  face ;  the  wind  ruffled 
her  ribbons,  and  laying  aside  her  work  for  an  instant,  she 
seemed  to  drink  in  at  the  same  time  light,  air,  and  happi- 
ness, when  all  at  once  the  door  to  the  courtyard  opened. 

Colonel  Morand,  followed  by  an  officer  and  by  Ludovic, 
came  to  tell  Girhardi  that  he  was  free.  He  was  to  quit 
the  fortress  at  once ;  a  carriage  was  waiting  to  take  him 
and  his  daughter  to  Turin ! 

On  the  colonel's  entrance  Teresa  rose ;  she  fell  back 
into  her  chair,  and  with  a  glance  at  Charney,  her  color 
and  her  bright  smile  faded.  Charney  himself,  still  seated 
on  the  bench,  kept  his  head  down,  while  Girhardi  listened 
to  the  reading  of  his  pardon. 

The  preparations  for  departure  were  very  brief. 

Ludovic  had  already  brought  the  old  man's  trunk  from 
his  room.  The  officer  was  ready  to  escort  him  to  Turin. 

The  parting  hour  had  come. 

Teresa  rose  once  more  and  seemed  absorbed  in  putting 
her  embroidery  into  her  bag,  in  arranging  her  neck  ker- 
chief ;  then  she  tried  to  put  on  her  gloves  ;  .  .  .  she  could 
not  manage  it. 


162  PICCIOLA. 

Charney,  arming  himself  with  courage,  approached 
Girhardi,  opened  his  arms  and  said,  "Farewell,  father!" 

"  My  son  !  My  dear  son  !  "  faltered  his  old  friend.  .  .  . 
"  Keep  up  your  courage  !  Count  on  us.  ...  Farewell ! 
Farewell ! " 

He  held  him  in  a  long,  close  embrace,  and  then,  turn- 
ing to  Ludovic,  the  better  to  hide  his  emotion,  he  gave 
him  a  few  last  unnecessary  charges  in  regard  to  the  com- 
rade who  was  to  be  left  behind.  Ludovic  made  no  reply, 
but  he  offered  his  arm  to  the  old  man,  for  he  needed  a 
support. 

Meantime  Charney  went  up  to  Teresa  to  take  leave  of 
her  also.  Her  hand  on  the  back  of  her  chair,  her  eyes  on 
the  ground,  she  seemed  lost  in  thought,  as  if  she  never 
meant  to  leave  the  spot.  When  she  saw  Charney  by  her 
side,  waking  from  her  revery,  she  surveyed  him  for  a  time 
in  silence.  He  was  pale  and  agitated  and  could  not  speak. 
Suddenly  the  young  girl,  forgetting  her  resolves,  pointed 
to  the  prisoner's  plant : 

"  I  take  our  Picciola  to  witness,"  .  .   .  she  said. 

She  could  say  no  more. 

One  of  her  silk  gloves  which  she  held  in  her  hand  fell; 
Charney  picked  it  up,  kissed  and  returned  it  to  her  with- 
out a  word. 

Teresa  took  the  glove,  used  it  to  dry  the  tears  which 
flowed  freely  from  her  eyes,  and  giving  it  back  to  Charney 
with  one  last  smile,  she  cried,  "We  shall  meet  again!" 
and  drew  her  father  away. 

They  were  gone,  the  gate  had  long  since  closed  between 
them  and  him,  but  Charney  still  stood  as  if  turned  to  stone, 
convulsively  pressing  Teresa's  little  glove  to  his  heart. 


CONCLUSION. 

SOME  philosopher  has  said  that  greatness  is  never  appre- 
ciated until  it  has  ceased  to  exist ;  he  might  have  said  the 
same  of  health,  pleasure,  and  all  those  enjoyments  to  which 
the  soul  so  soon  becomes  accustomed. 

Never  had  the  prisoner  so  fully  appreciated  Girhardi's 
wisdom,  his  daughter's  virtues  and  charms,  as  now  that 
his  two  guests  had  left  him.  Deep  depression  followed 
the  ecstasy  of  a  day.  All  Ludovic's  efforts,  the  cares 
required  by  Picciola,  no  longer  sufficed  to  divert  him ;  but 
the  seeds  of  strength  and  reformation  sowed  by  his  dear 
studies  bore  fruit  at  last,  and  the  downcast  man  rose  once 
more. 

His  soul  was  perfected  by  strife.  At  first  he  blessed 
his  solitude,  which  allowed  him  to  spend  uninterrupted 
hours  in  thought  of  his  absent  friends  ;  later  on  he  was 
glad  to  see  some  one  take  the  old  man's  vacant  seat  on 
the  bench. 

The  first  and  most  frequent  of  his  visitors  was  the 
chaplain  of  the  prison,  the  good  priest,  once  so  rudely 
repulsed.  Informed  by  Ludovic  of  the  prisoner's  gloom, 
he  hastened,  forgetful  of  the  past,  to  offer  his  consolations, 
and  they  were  received  with  gratitude. 

Better  inclined  towards  mankind,  Charney  soon  learned 
to  like  this  man,  and  the  rustic  seat  once  more  became  the 
lecture  bench. 

The  philosopher  praised  the  marvels  of  his  plant,  those 
of  Nature,  and  rehearsed  old  Girhardi's  lessons  ;  the  priest, 

163 


164  PICCIOLA. 

without  entering  upon  the  discussion  of  dogma,  told  the 
sublime  story  of  Christ,  and  each  upheld  the  other. 

The  next  visitor  was  Colonel  Morand.  On  better 
acquaintance  he  proved  a  good  fellow ;  he  had  a  soldier's 
heart ;  he  never  tormented  his  people  except  by  order ;  he 
almost  reconciled  Charney  to  petty  tyrants. 

At  last  the  day  came  for  Charney  to  say  good-bye  to 
both  priest  and  colonel.  When  he  least  expected  it  his 
prison  doors  were  thrown  open ! 

On  his  return  from  Austerlitz,  Napoleon,  urged  by 
Josephine,  who  perhaps  was  urged  by  some  one  else  inter- 
ceding for  the  prisoner  of  Fenestrella,  inquired  into  the 
search  made  of  Charney's  effects. 

The  handkerchief  manuscripts  were  laid  before  the 
Emperor,  having  thus  far  remained  in  the  archives  of 
the  State  department ;  he  looked  them  over  carefully, 
and  loudly  declared  that  Count  Charney  was  a  fool,  but 
a  very  harmless  fool. 

"A  man  who  thus  subjects  his  thought  to  a  blade  of 
grass,"  said  he,  "may  make  a  very  good  botanist,  but  no 
conspirator.  I  grant  his  pardon;  let  his  estates  be  re- 
stored to  him,  and  let  him  till  his  own  land,  if  such  be 
his  pleasure ! " 

So  Charney  too  was  to  leave  Fenestrella !  but  he  did 
not  go  alone.  How  could  he  leave  his  first,  his  faithful 
friend  ?  Transplanting  her  into  a  large  box,  well  filled 
with  rich  earth,  he  triumphantly  bore  away  with  him  his 
Picciola !  Picciola,  to  whom  he  owed  his  reason  ;  Picciola, 
who  saved  his  life;  Picciola,  in  whose  bosom  he  found 
his  healing  faith  ;  Picciola,  who  taught  him  to  know  friend- 
ship and  even  love ;  Picciola,  who  had  set  him  free ! 


PICCIOLA.  165 

As  he  was  about  to  cross  the  drawbridge,  a  broad,  hard 
hand  was  suddenly  stretched  out. 

"Signer  Conte,"  said  Ludovic,  struggling  with  his  emo- 
tion, "  give  me  your  hand  ;  we  can  be  friends  now,  since 
you  are  going  away,  since  you  are  to  leave  us,  since  we 
shall  never  meet  again!  .  .  .  Thank  God!" 

Charney  would  not  let  him  finish.  "  We  shall  meet  again, 
dear  Ludovic  !  Ludovic,  my  friend  !  " 

And  embracing  him,  pressing  his  hand  repeatedly,  he 
left  the  fortress. 

He  had  crossed  the  parade,  left  behind  him  the  hill  on 
which  the  fortress  stands,  crossed  the  bridge  that  spans  the 
Clusone,  and  had  already  turned  into  the  Suza  road,  when 
a  voice  was  heard  calling  from  the  top  of  the  ramparts  : 

"Good-bye,  Signer  Conte!     Good-bye,  Picciola!" 

A  year  later,  on  a  bright  spring  day,  a  handsome  carriage 
drew  up  in  front  of  the  prison  at  Fenestrella.  A  traveller 
stepped  out  and  asked  for  Ludovic  Ritti. 

It  was  the  former  captive  come  to  visit  his  friend  the 
gaoler.  A  lady  leaned  affectionately  upon  the  traveller's 
arm. 

The  lady  was  Teresa  Girhardi,  Countess  of  Charney. 

Together  they  visited  the  courtyard  and  the  cell  once 
occupied  by  weariness,  unbelief,  and  disillusion  !  Of  all 
the  despairing  maxims  once  traced  on  the  white  walls  but 
one  remained  : 

"Knowledge,  beauty,  youth,  fortune,  all,  here  on  earth, 
are  powerless  to  confer  happiness." 

Teresa  added  :  "  Without  love" 

A  kiss,  which  Charney  imprinted  on  her  cheek,  con- 
firmed what  she  had  written. 


166  PICCIOLA. 

The  Count  begged  Ludovic  to  stand  godfather  to  his 
first  child,  as  he  had  to  Picciola.  Their  errand  accom- 
plished, the  husband  and  wife  returned  to  Turin,  where 
Girhardi  awaited  them  in  his  beautiful  home. 

In  her  own  special  bed,  warmed  and  lighted  by  the  rays 
of  the  rising  sun,  Charney  had  planted  his  flower,  which 
no  other  hand  was  to  disturb.  By  his  orders,  he  alone 
was  to  care  for  her,  attend  to  her  wants.  It  was  an  occu- 
pation, a  duty,  a  debt,  required  of  his  gratitude. 

How  quickly  the  days  passed  !  Surrounded  by  vast 
gardens,  on  the  banks  of  a  noble  river,  under  a  blue  sky, 
Charney  enjoyed  the  life  of  the  fortunate  ones  of  this 
earth.  Time  added  a  new  charm,  a  new  force  to  all  his 
bonds;  for  custom,  like  the  ivy  on  our  walls,  strengthens 
and  binds  that  which  it  cannot  destroy.  Girhardi's  friend- 
ship, Teresa's  love,  the  blessings  of  all  beneath  his  roof, 
nothing  was  wanting  to  his  happiness,  and  the  moment 
came  when  even  this  happiness  increased.  Charney  was 
a  father ! 

Oh  !  then  his  heart  overflowed  with  felicity  !  His  love 
for  his  daughter  seemed  to  redouble  that  which  he  bore 
his  wife.  He  never  tired  of  gazing  at  them,  of  adoring 
them  both.  It  was  torture  to  be  parted  from  them  for  an 
instant ! 

Just  at  this  time  Ludovic  came  in  fulfilment  of  his 
promise ;  his  first  thought  was  to  visit  his  first  god- 
daughter—  the  child  of  the  prison.  But,  alas!  amidst 
these  outbursts  of  love,  amidst  the  prosperity  which  filled 
the  home,  the  source  of  all  these  joys,  of  all  this  happiness, 
poor  Picciola,  was  dead,  .  .  .  dead  for  want  of  care ! 


FOURTEEN  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 


This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


27May'55AM 


JUN2     1955 


